Unsolvable (otherwise known as Harry Potter)
by bloody.pinprick
Summary: ...John was speechless in the face of a skinny teenage boy with wide green eyes and a small smile, who rose slowly from the floor and held out a hand, looking hesitant and almost frightened. "Sherlock?" John began. "What have you done now?" (On hiatus. Probably permanently.)
1. prologue

_Honestly, this is sort of a trial run. Depending on response, I may or may not post much more of this._

 _I'm enjoying writing for other fandoms now. I've kind of run myself dry on Death Note._

* * *

It wasn't that John hadn't expected to find something odd and out of place in the kitchen. He was used to finding fingers, toes, eyeballs, tongues, and the occasional severed head placed casually on the counter, or in the fridge or microwave. It was still rather disgusting, and he didn't think it would ever stop being disgusted, but at least he wasn't surprised. So he walked through the kitchen without looking at the countertops or the floors until he opened the fridge, at which point he noticed an almost disturbing lack of body parts and dangerous chemicals on the shelves.

John could hear Sherlock in the living room, reciting every detail of John's day while he plucked at his violin. John, having already lived out his day, decided that it would probably be alright to cut in and see what had gone wrong with Sherlock's.

"... and judging by the knuckles of your right hand, you've dealt with a large number of patients today, especially patients with infectious diseas -"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, feeling rather unpleasantly surprised (not, of course, that Sherlock had noticed he'd dealt with a few cases of the flu today; that wasn't at all surprising). "Sherlock, did you forget to pick up those ears you kept going on about?"

"Ah," Sherlock said, and John closed the fridge, snacks of all manner forgotten. He turned and watched Sherlock put away his violin. He looked positively delighted, which was disturbing enough by itself. Doubly so since he obviously wasn't working a case at the moment, and there were obviously no experiments to occupy him at that moment. John felt very uneasy and nodded, as if to prod his flatmate into continuing. "I was otherwise occupied today."

 _Otherwise occupied?_

"Otherwise occupied?" John asked, trying to sound casual, though his brows were raised.

"We have a guest," Sherlock proclaimed, glancing down to a spot on the floor somewhere between the lower half of the bearskin rug and the couch. John wondered if Sherlock was experimenting on a cat or something. Perhaps he was trying to see whether it liked his constant violin playing, or perhaps he was trying to find another substitute for his skull in John's absence. After all, Mrs. Hudson did have a habit of whisking the thing away and hiding it somewhere until Sherlock found it again. Evidently she didn't think skulls were proper decor.

But the skull still sat in its proper place on the shelf, and John thought that it must be the first reason; he was experimenting on whatever it was he'd brought in from the street. He took a few steps closer to the couch and something sitting on the floor by a chair caught his attention. He gawked at it: a small black suitcase, shabby and apparently very full. His mind flashed rapidly between Irene Adler and the pink woman's suitcase. Was it possible that the guest was the Woman? Or a dead body? Well, a dead body either way, but - "That's luggage," John said dully.

"Obviously," Sherlock said smugly, and looked down at that same space again. Before John had a chance to wonder whether or not he should get close enough to the couch to join Sherlock in staring at the spot, the other man continued. "Stand up now. John, this is Harry. Harry, John."

And John was speechless in the face of a skinny teenage boy with wide green eyes and a small smile, who rose slowly from the floor and held out a hand, looking hesitant and almost frightened. "Sherlock?" John began. "What have you done now?"


	2. chapter one

_Notes: 'Sherlock' timeline adjusted for the story. Basically, everything has been pushed forward in time by around 5 months or so. Harry Potter story has also been adjusted - it basically takes place years after it did in the books._

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

 _Two years ago: August 3, 2009_

* * *

When his Uncle Vernon made his way upstairs after kicking Ripper off of his leg and letting go the the floating Marge, Harry knew he was in trouble. His uncle's face seemed swollen and purple with rage. His veins were apt to burst from his rage as they popped out from his skull. Meaty fists clenched, unclenched, and Harry took a couple of slow steps back. He wanted to vomit - there was no way he was getting out of the room with all of his stuff, or even without it, as Uncle Vernon was blocking the door. Suddenly, instead of feeling white-hot rage, he felt afraid. "Look, I-I'm sorry, I'll set her back," he began just as his uncle charged him.

Harry thought his uncle was going to beat him to death with his bare hands and wondered if his life should flash before his eyes. But all he could see was his uncle charging him, and then he heard a kind of whooshing sound, one that seemed vaguely familiar but not quite. He opened his mouth, as if to protest whatever it was that was about to happen, but a fleshy hand pushed him to the ground and he felt the bite of leather through his shirt. It was a belt, he knew, and he tried to curl up. Uncle Vernon kicked him in the stomach, effectively preventing that, but Harry still crossed his arms over his face, praying that none of the blows would ruin his eyes or anything important.

He could hear the slap of the belt against his skin - sharp and defined, over and over again, but more than that, he could feel it. It was a white-hot pain, unlike any of the times he'd been spanked or swatted as a child. Then it had simply been punishment, but this time it was like Harry's tiny, rail-thin body was an outlet for all of his uncle's rage. He heard himself screaming, and wondered if he was asking for mercy, because his uncle finally stopped, gasping, like he'd had a great workout or something.

Harry was _crying._ He wanted to scold himself; he didn't cry. He hadn't cried about much of anything for a long time, especially not the Dursleys. After all, he'd stopped feeling jealous of Dudley after a while, when he'd realized how glad he was not to be the size of a bear or a small whale. Not to mention that he'd become almost ignorant of the neglect he'd suffered. It was normal. But this was entirely different.

As his uncle collected himself, Harry wondered if he'd become a little _too_ okay with the behavior of his relatives, who either completely disregarded his existence or pretended that he was a slave. They often starved him. Even though he had a bedroom, Harry would find himself locked in his old cupboard, trapped in the dark until someone decided to let him out. And sometimes they hit him. What about spreading foul rumors of him and his parents and Harry's supposed delinquency? Was that abuse? He was sure that everything that had just happened, at least, was abuse, and that they shouldn't get away with it even though he knew they would.

Harry sobbed again, picking himself up slowly and hoping his uncle wouldn't beat him again. He could tell that the instant the man had caught his breath, it would be that or yelling. He choked back more tears and grabbed his stuff, hurrying to his door and slamming it behind him, continuing on in spite of a very distinct pain in his ankle because he could hear his uncle's footsteps in his wake.

Harry knew he would have to run, and that he would have to wait some time before coming back.

* * *

He took a cab to London, which was interesting in that the cabbie bought his story easily, or at least didn't question it. That was good - the last thing he wanted was to be brought to some kind of authority, who'd shunt him right back to the Dursleys. He somehow doubted that he'd survive the summer there, or that it would be very miserable at least. So he wanted to steer clear of anybody important until it was time to board the train. Hopefully his bruises would be healed by then even if they weren't all visible.

Harry knew how to get to Diagon Alley from London, but that wasn't where he was going. It seemed way too predictable, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to stay at the Leaky Cauldron. Wizarding authorities had the potential to be just as dangerous as Muggle ones, so he'd be steering clear of them, too. Which also, he realized, meant that he couldn't use magic, because then they'd track him down as easily as if he had a GPS tracker installed in his head. Or he thought so, anyways - Harry wasn't entirely sure how that worked.

And so the thirteen-year-old wandered the streets, feeling absolutely clueless as to what he was supposed to be doing. What did homeless kids do? Hide away in alleys? Find someone and beg them to take them in for a few days? Would he be able to go to a homeless shelter if there was one? Harry had very little Muggle money on him - probably not even enough to buy food. He felt the beginnings of tears in his eyes again and scowled. _No._ He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't be seen as weak. And he would certainly thank whatever God wizards were supposed to pray to that he'd chosen to wear long sleeves today, because he was sure the belt had wrapped around the frail, tender appendages before Uncle Vernon had jerked it back and aimed a kick at -

 _NO._

A lightbulb by a nearby door exploded and Harry jumped, almost startled by his own magic. He glanced left and right, like he thought his relatives might be anywhere. What if someone else wanted to hit him for what they labeled as freakishness? No, that wouldn't do. He would definitely have to get out of that area, fast. Besides, he didn't want to be alone in a dark portion of city street. As little time as Harry spent in the Muggle world, he wasn't ignorant. Well, not entirely. So he hurried on, trying to stay clear of all of the alleys, so some shadow couldn't snatch him into them and seal his fate.

And that didn't happen. Rather, someone came _out_ of the alley, as if the lack of light was an absolute relief to them. Harry shivered a little because he thought he could feel the person's eyes locked on him, but he tried to ignore them and hurried past until he heard them say something. "In the face of domestic violence, it is recommended that any potential victims leave the home, not trap themselves." It was a deep voice, and sounded, at first, serious. But then Harry picked up a frightening note of cheer that didn't seem to belong in such a statement and he turned, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

The speaker was tall and he couldn't see much of them in the dim, dull light. They seemed to be wearing some kind of a loose jacket that, for a second, resembled robes, and Harry froze in his place. It wasn't long enough to be robes, and though he noted that quickly, he still stayed tense, as if preparing for an attack he knew he wouldn't be able to ward off. The stranger's neck seemed kind of thick, be it coat collar or scarf, and his hair was nearly as unruly as Harry's own. His pale complexion seemed to glow in the dim light, and something small and thin in his hands glinted in the light. Harry privately wondered if the man was high - smoking something, maybe - and stayed ready to run. But the speaker was also tall, and even drugged, someone with such long legs would catch up to him in an instant.

"Excuse me?" Harry said bravely, amazed by the fact that his voice didn't quaver with the fear and adrenaline pumping through him. All of the soreness from Uncle Vernon's beating seemed to have vanished, but he knew that the pain would soon be back.

"It's obvious," the man said, waving his hands almost dismissively. The shiny thing caught the light again and Harry realized that the thin tube was definitely being used for recreational purposes. He wondered if he should just walk away. _Yes, that would be best…_ "You're obviously very young, your neck and wrists show bruising, and you have luggage," the man said by way of a brief explanation. He wondered how the man could tell that he hadn't been homeless for a very long time and simply been beaten by a street vendor or something. It certainly couldn't be the state of his clothes. After all, they were huge and practically worn to translucence.

"Oh… kay." Harry's voice sounded dry and notably less courageous all of a sudden. He was pretty sure that this guy, who was at least a little high, wouldn't exactly want to contact the police, but he was still nervous. He felt exposed and ripped raw, and he wondered what the man would do or say next. Was he fishing for some kind of compliment? It was pretty incredible that the man had managed to figure that out from a single passing glance in that light, but Harry didn't want to reward him for being nosy.

The man's mood switched in a split second from mildly amused to almost disappointed and a little angry. "You were very recently in a home of some kind of guardians - possibly family or a foster family. There was an older boy in your home, and he was the favorite. You go to a boarding school. Although you're evidently well adjusted to neglect, you are also unused to the abuse that you suffered prior to leaving your home." Harry took two steps back, as the man suddenly seemed almost hostile. Maybe it had something to do with the drugs. "It's also apparent that you have some place to go - eventually, anyways. I would make a point of getting there soon. It'll be raining in an hour or so."

The man walked up, and Harry was almost unable to move even as he removed a rather large wad of cash from his pocket and forced it into Harry's palm. He almost wanted to deny the help but knew how stupid it would be, so he tucked it into the bottom of his baggy pockets and peered into the man's blue-grey eyes. His pupils were dilated - definitely high. But Harry still managed to whimper out a thank you, regardless of how intimidated he was by the man's seemingly massive height and intense glare.

Harry had no way of knowing it, but he had made the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes, and was now a small part of a network that stretched across London and even outside of it - and now, that network would reach into the magical world, whether Sherlock knew it or not.

* * *

 _Woah. Well, you guys are all friggin' awesome. Thank you. Seriously!_

 _Please note that this story is neither Brit-picked or beta'd. If you're interested in doing that, feel free to get in touch, though._

 _The length of chapters in this story will vary GREATLY._


	3. chapter two

Chapter 2

* * *

 _Previously:_

 _He took a few steps closer to the couch and something sitting on the floor by a chair caught his attention. He gawked at it: a small black suitcase, shabby and apparently very full. His mind flashed rapidly between Irene Adler and the pink woman's suitcase. Was it possible that the guest was the Woman? Or a dead body? Well, a dead body either way, but - "That's luggage," John said dully._

" _Obviously," Sherlock said smugly, and looked down at that same space again. Before John had a chance to wonder whether or not he should get close enough to the couch to join Sherlock in staring at the spot, the other man continued. "Stand up now. John, this is Harry. Harry, John."_

 _And John was speechless in the face of a skinny teenage boy with wide green eyes and a small smile, who rose slowly from the floor and held out a hand, looking hesitant and almost frightened. "Sherlock?" John began. "What have you done now?"_

* * *

 _Present_

" _I_ haven't done anything," Sherlock protested as John shook the boy's hand, looking the boy up and down. He stood up straight - his posture was near perfect, and he was sort of tall. Actually, that wasn't too shocking, considering that he appeared to be around the age when children get their growth spurts. Of course, the boy's size mattered very little. Almost none, actually. John just wanted to know why this semi-tall boy with shabby clothes and a suitcase were in the flat, especially since Sherlock had never once indicated that he cared for children at all. John's mind went back to the experimenting thing and wondered with a jolt if _that_ was the boy's purpose. "I did invite him in, of course," the consulting detective added absently, as if it didn't matter much at all to him.

"Uh," John said dumbly, wondering who on earth the boy was and then finally dropping his hand. He'd certainly had a firm grip and he had easily met John's eyes, which meant that he apparently wasn't as intimidated by him as much as most clients were (though Sherlock was really the one to be intimidated by). Maybe that was it. Maybe the kid was a client. "Er. What's he doing here, though?" John said, deciding that the kid didn't look like he could _afford_ to be a client. Sure, Sherlock would take just about any case if he found it interesting, but most people at least paid something.

"Harry," Sherlock began, gesturing to the boy like he was some kind of a fine prize, "is going to stay with us until the first of September." Harry seemed to pale, as if he could feel Sherlock's gaze penetrating through his skull, and John watched the black haired boy's Adam's apple bob. "Aren't you, Harry?" Harry nodded in agreement, looking rather less than happy about it, and John wondered how Sherlock had managed to persuade him to get here if he was really so unhappy about it.

"He didn't, er, kidnap you, did he?" John asked, the corner of his mouth turning up, like it was some kind of joke. In reality, he was quite sure that he'd said few things _more_ seriously, but he just wasn't sure how to handle the situation. After all, the kid didn't look happy to be there - not at all.

Harry shook his head and answered with a polite, "No, sir," his eyes sparkling with something like apprehension and nerves.

"Sherlock, the first -" John paused, counting the days in his head as he stared at the boy some more and wondered what kind of trouble a young person could cause in a flat that was usually full of dangerous chemical and body parts, among other things. _And what would Mrs. Hudson think of this?_ "That's - it's five days from now." Whatever hope had been in Harry's green eyes died almost immediately, and Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, as if to say, _Five days? What could possibly go wrong?_

John didn't need to know the future to know the answer. _A lot, you git._

* * *

"Erm," Harry began as he watched Mr. Holmes settle on the couch. His hands were pressed together, like he was praying, and rested on the tip of his chin. What would that be called? Stippl - _Steepling._ That was it. His hands were steepled beneath his chin and his eyes were closed, his face calm and devoid of most emotion. Really, if anything, Harry would say that he looked determined. Determined to what, though? Harry didn't know much about this man except that he had once told off his aunt and scared Dudley almost as much as Hagrid with his magical umbrella. Not only that, but he'd done so by telling them all of the details about their lives that no stranger should know.

Harry thought about the look on Aunt Petunia's face when he'd informed her that her child had eaten _far_ too much bacon that morning, and that, without a doubt, his mid-morning snack alone was having an ill effect on his health. If he was stalking them enough to know about that (or however he knew it) there was a risk that he'd take the Statute of Secrecy, chew it up, and spit it out. Harry didn't want that kind of trouble _right after_ being cleared of all charges over the dementors. And especially not since the entire wizarding world seemed to be against him at the moment. They would probably stick him in Azkaban for life or something.

"Sorry if I'm a burden," he continued awkwardly, because obviously Holmes had failed to inform this other bloke that Harry was going to be here. Harry scratched at the back of his head, quietly hoping the shorter man would put his foot down and say that he had to go. Of course, he wasn't that lucky, so he hardly expected it.

"It's -" the man made a face for a moment and pursed his lips. His eyebrows drew themselves to the center of his forehead as he considered, and Harry realized that he had probably been on the verge of saying something like 'not a problem' out of politeness. "- well, he does mad things like this all the time," he finished finally, seemingly satisfied with it as he continued. "I'm John Watson - Sherlock's flatmate."

Harry shook his hand and nodded. Watson had a very firm grip, and Harry made note of the fact that he was incredibly strong, or at least wanted to appear that way. For some odd reason, the man's tense posture and squared shoulders reminded him of Mad-Eye Moody, and he had to hold back a snicker. "Please to meet you," Harry said, since Holmes had already introduced him and he wasn't keen for either of them to no his surname. Actually, this entire experience was kind of terrifying. He'd practically been _kidnapped_ \- and not by Voldemort or even a wizard, but a Muggle - someone who didn't even know his last name and wouldn't recognize the importance of it if they did.

It was almost refreshing.

Watson nodded. His expression, to Harry, was just further confirmation of what he already knew: this was awkward. Their hands dropped to their sides and Harry glanced over at his suitcase. He was pretty nervous. Before he'd left Grimmauld Place (much to Sirius's dismay) Molly Weasley made a point of putting charms on all of his books and potions ingredients just in case his 'uncle's friend' decided to dig around his suitcase. After all, the frustrating tendency of his suitcase zipper to get snagged wasn't going to stop anyone being curious. But Harry was still worried. Concealment magic wasn't foolproof at all, and if the spell wasn't done perfectly, the Muggles would still notice something off.

"Er," said Watson, glancing at the man on the couch, who appeared to be in a completely different world. "Do you - want something to eat, maybe?" Harry immediately realized that this man was going to be like a male version of Molly Weasley - careful to note how thin he was, too thin, and always wanting to fix the problem. That wasn't a bad thing. Really, it was the only reason he was tall now - if it hadn't been for Hogwarts food and his time spent at the Burrow, Harry would probably still be a midget. Besides, it was dinnertime.

"Sounds great, sir," Harry said. He was pretty sure that the minute long pauses between each sentence was making things a dozen times more awkward than they needed to be, but he couldn't help it.

Watson nodded and walked over to the kitchen, where Harry could see the fridge and the microwave, as well as some kind of black and mysterious substance in a jar over the stovetop. "You'll have to be careful in here," he said, his hand wrapping around the handle of the fridge, "Sherlock's always doing these mad -" the fridge door opened, and then very quickly closed. "- things. How do you feel about takeout?"

"It sounds great," Harry said suspiciously, wondering why they apparently had so little in their fridge that it only took half a second to examine it all. It would, of course,be rude to ask. One thing, at least, was in the Dursleys' favor; they had raised him to be very polite and respectful, even if he had evolved a bit of a smart mouth. "What's that black stuff?" he said finally, deciding that it wasn't off-limits.

"An experiment," Sherlock said absently, effectively scaring the tar out of Harry. At the same time, Watson replied, "Congealed blood," sounding so weary that Harry could only guess it was a normal thing.

Another long moment of silence passed, and Harry swallowed. Congealed blood? Maybe he should have a look inside the fridge. _What kind of person keeps blood on the stovetop?_ Harry thought, and then corrected himself. _What kind of person keeps blood in their flat, period?_ Hopefully these people weren't serial killers or anything. "Er. Okay. From… where?"

Watson looked almost comically alarmed, his eyes widening astronomically, like he'd been found out. Harry opened his mouth to remedy the question, but Watson beat him to it. "Oh! A cadaver from Bart's," he said by way of explanation. Needless to say, Harry was only more confused.

"Cadaver? And, er, who's Bart? I'm not from London, you see," Harry explained, feeling rather mortified of himself. Obviously the fact that wizards had isolated themselves from the Muggle community was having a negative impact on him.

"Bart's?" the man asked with a frown. "The hospital. Cadavers are -"

"Oh," Harry answered with a nod. Context clues. "Sorry. But why?"

"I'm not really sure," confessed Watson, glancing at the door. "Look, I'm - I'll have to get something for us to eat. Just keep in mind that if Sherlock asks you to do something, you don't really _have_ to do it." He pursed his lips and added, "Actually, you should probably avoid doing whatever it is he asks you to do, and that's if he actually moves from that spot."

It was probably the oddest bit of instruction that he'd ever received from a competent adult, but Watson didn't leave until Harry slowly nodded. And with that, Harry was left alone with the very same man who had insisted to Mr. Weasley that he was a very close friend of Harry's uncle's and that he simply hadn't seen him in the longest time, not since he and his cousin had been tiny (cough) little things and he'd watched them, and oh could Harry please spend some time with his Uncle Holmes before he headed off to school? Harry hadn't been able to get a word in edgewise, and Mr. Weasley, charmed by the other man's Muggle ignorance, had agreed without really thinking.

But as Holmes's clear blue eyes slowly opened and Harry felt a cold, calculating gaze slowly fix itself on him, he decided that there was really very little that this man was ignorant of.

* * *

 _I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter._

 _I can't thank you guys enough for your response to this story! So many reviews and a hundred followers... Thanks!_


	4. chapter three

Chapter 3

* * *

Harry was used to being stared at. He was famous, after all, and for whatever reason his fans were convinced that ogling him was the best possible way to spend their time. And this year, especially, not all of the stares had been of admiration. Harry thought that he should be able to handle Holmes's piercing glare, even if it wasn't the same kind he'd _really_ become used to in the wizarding world. He sat there and took it in complete silence for a few minutes, trying not to look at Holmes, but he could still feel it. It fact, he was beginning to wonder if the man's intense eyes were boring two perfectly round holes into his head.

"Do you need something, sir?" Harry asked finally, politely, wondering if he was doing something wrong and that was why he was being glared at. After all, the Dursley's hadn't exactly bothered to teach him how to be a guest - or how to behave around a guest, either. When the Dursleys hosted parties and the like, they usually sent him directly to his room, where he would quite literally pretend that he didn't exist until the guests left. He almost laughed -what a pathetic existence.

Holmes didn't answer at first. Harry hadn't expected him to, really, though he had hoped for it. It was obvious to Harry, after three meetings, that the man had rather atrocious manners and probably hadn't even been listening to him speak. _Still, it was worth a try._ Minutes passed and eventually, he heard a dull hum come from the other occupant of the room, followed by, "Where's John?"

That, really, was startling. It was bad enough that he'd been whisked away by a stranger who apparently had no food at home _(?)_ and who didn't know enough to pay attention to his surroundings. _And_ who had apparently stalked his aunt. How could a man so seemingly negligent have convinced Mr. Weasley to let Harry stay with him? The boy held back a groan and frowned. "He left to get something to eat," Harry explained, glancing hopefully through the door, as if the staring would end when Watson got back.

Holmes hummed contentedly, and continued his staring. _Merlin - just stop it already,_ Harry thought, glancing to the corner of the room and then all around it. The place was sort of cluttered - so cluttered that he wondered how people actually comfortably fit in here. There were books everywhere and some things were even jammed beneath the chairs. The countertops had lots of glassware on them, like the chemistry sets of mad scientists he'd seen in Dudley's cartoons as a child. _A mad scientist on top of everything. Great._ The glassware was clean, though, he noted, and then Holmes spoke once again, catching him entirely off guard. "Do you remember the afternoon of July the eighteenth of last year?"

His voice was so serious that for a moment Harry actually took him seriously, trying to decide what might have happened around that time that was important enough to recall an entire year later. Of course, all that Harry remembered of July the year before was that the Dursleys had completely forgotten his birthday once again, but that his friends had sent in his gifts by owl. He slowly shook his head and then realized how ridiculous it was; how was he to know and remember a specific event that had taken place on a specific date an entire year ago? Maybe it had been something on the Muggle news. "No," he answered simply and flatly.

Holmes made a grunting sound, his eyes littered with something akin to irritation. "On the afternoon of that day, you and your family were in a shopping complex." Oh. Now he remembered. Harry made a noise of recognition and nodded. As if he could possibly forget that day and the consequences that had followed it. Holmes looked slightly more satisfied and continued, "Recount the day as you remember it." A simple order - no please or anything. But more importantly was the order itself. He'd been Obliviated, which meant that there should have been a significant gap in his memory. Harry swallowed uncertainly. Why would this fellow want him to say everything that had happened? Most Obliviated Muggles would let it go after a few days, deciding that the occasion simply hadn't been important enough to remember. "Well?" the man added irritably.

"Erm," Harry said, glancing up at the ceiling as he wondered how he should phrase things so as to avoid breaking the Statute of Secrecy for the second time that year as well as breaching every underage magic law in the book. Sort of. "My aunt, Dudley, and I left home for the shops… then we got there and picked up some things for a few hours." He was suddenly aware of how terribly vague he was being, but he supposed that it would sound more natural that way. After all, a normal person wouldn't have any reason to recall the entire shopping trip in great detail. "We bumped into you and you - er, you said some things to my aunt - and," Harry paused, feeling as if he'd had a stroke of genius, "and she got angry and left.' She had been pretty angry, after all - she just hadn't _left_ so easily. No - this bloke's mind-reading trick had started a chain of effects that would end with his obese cousin spitting bloody dung from his mouth as Harry's magic turned particularly volatile.

Yes, he remembered that.

"That's _all_?" complained Holmes, who then began to _pout._ It was hilarious - almost as funny as Dudley's crocodile tears when he didn't get what he wanted. Except that, really, when Harry thought about it, Dudley wasn't funny at all. It was so irritating that he was thought to be some kind of angel - the embodiment of perfection. To Harry, that seemed a personal insult - albeit one that didn't truly sting anymore. After all, Harry was the one who wasn't the size of a house, and did _all_ of the cleaning, and the cooking, for that matter. So why was Dudley the perfect one? All he did was eat food, get gas, and spit on orphans.

Harry was sure that he must be scowling and was suddenly glad that his kidnapping not-uncle wasn't looking at him. "Er, yeah. Sorry…?" Harry wasn't sure why he should have felt sorry, but the everlasting sense of subordinance ingrained into him by the Dursleys practically forced him to mock politeness. "Why does it matter?"

Harry was beginning to realize that the other man's language involved quite a lot of grunting and humming. Holmes, of course, ignored him this time, closing his eyes again and falling into some kind of a second-long trance. It was off-putting; Harry had the bizarre feeling that the man was floating out of his body. Odd. Very odd. But before Harry had a chance to actually feel worried about him - try to snap him out of it, perhaps - he snapped back into reality. "Your aunt - family dead, husband having an affair. She is an enabler and a gossip, but she is relatively clever. Apparently not clever enough to recognize your cousin's state of morbid obesity and his habit of chain smoking. His mid-morning snack alone is obviously contributing to his bad health and gargantuan size."

That, of course, gave Harry a start. It was exactly what he recalled Holmes stating to Aunt Petunia when she'd met him at the store. She had been completely startled and then infuriated. Harry remembered wondering what made her angrier: that the man had broadcasted that to everyone, that the man had insulted Dudley, that he'd accused the absent Vernon of having an affair, that her suspicions of the affair had been confirmed, or that the affair was apparently so evident that a stranger could point it out even when Vernon wasn't there. After all, if it was that obvious, then what would the neighbors say?

As usual, Harry had been basically ignored. That, perhaps, had been because Aunt Petunia had distracted the stranger by screaming at him rather loudly, and then she'd turned on Harry. She was evidently convinced that either Mr. Holmes (who had mentioned his name while he cut into Petunia's shouting to brag of his 'deductions') must be one of Harry's lot, or that it was somehow Harry's 'freakishness' that had caused the entire ordeal. This, in turn, had set Holmes off _again_ , and then Dudley had started trashing Harry's mother to try and punish him since he apparently thought it was Harry's fault that someone had finally noticed how fat he was. By this point, Harry was over it - so over it that Dudley had stopped his downpour of crocodile tears and started spitting excrement.

Needless to say, Holmes had stopped ignoring him at that point. He had become curious - too curious, really, and had called over a short man (Watson, probably. He had seemed a little familiar, though Harry hadn't really paid any attention to the shorter man at the time. It could have been anyone.) who had attempted to diffuse the situation. The man had then tried to examine Dudley, who couldn't stop throwing up, just in time for the Obliviators to show up.

It had been _absolute CHAOS._

"But what happened after _that_? The entire scene with your aunt was so amusing that I daresay I wouldn't have deleted it," Holmes said, displaying and odd little bit of humor for the first time since Harry had met him.

"We left," Harry answered simply, praying that the man would let it go and just send him back to Grimmauld Place. "Aunt Petunia was having a fit -"

"No," snapped Holmes, his voice hard and irritated. It was like a warning - _I won't tolerate lying, and believe me, I'll know when you lie._ It made Harry feel monumentally uncomfortable, but he tried to make himself look confused and offended. "No, I remember you leaving - almost three hours after I initially made contact with your aunt. The gap in my memory is disturbing at best, but you remember." His voice became dangerously soft, silky, and cold. "Don't you?"

Harry wondered if it would be entirely safe to just grab his trunk and run, but even years of Harry Hunting couldn't make him _that_ fast. He swallowed, not letting the look of confused innocence slip from his face, though he allowed some of his pure, unadulterated terror show. "I -" He stopped himself. This man was rather horribly intimidating, and if Harry tried to say anything, he was worried he'd just admit right off that he was a wizard. Then he'd get kicked out of Hogwarts _and_ sent to a mental hospital, all in the same day.

Then - and Harry was suddenly sure that there must be a God out there - the door to 221B swung open. "Sorry, Harry, I forgot to get you what you wanted and I just got you some chic -" Watson stopped talking, and though Harry couldn't see his face, he imagined that he must look quite resigned. "I've obviously missed something."

"Always, John," answered Holmes.

* * *

 _Well, this one was a little short, but I do think that it was one of my better chapters._

 _Please drop me a review! What do you think?_


	5. chapter four

Chapter 4

* * *

" _Consulting_ detective," Harry said after a pause, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed his orange chicken. "What does that mean?"

It was very lucky for Harry that there was someone like John Watson in the flat, because Sherlock certainly would not have taken the time to explain things to him. Sherlock did love a nice chance to brag, but he had more pressing matters on his hands. Harry himself was one of them, although his inability to lie convincingly was making him exponentially less mysterious.

Sherlock was, overall, convinced that Harry could remember the events that had taken place at the shopping center the year before in perfect detail. More than that, though, he _knew_ that Harry had lied about it. Evidently he did not wish to reveal the truth. In other words, he was keeping a secret, and _no one_ could keep a secret from Sherlock Holmes.

When Harry and Sherlock had first encountered each other, the boy had found himself unable to conceal his status as a runaway. He hadn't been able to hide the abuse he'd suffered through, and he had certainly been unable to stop his emotions from showing rather clearly on his innocent young face. He was a better liar now, but still far from perfection. To Sherlock, it was a challenge - he would retrieve the absent portion of his generally perfect mystery _and_ put together the puzzle that was young Harry all at once.

Harry himself was a puzzle for only a few reasons, but a puzzle enough. Whatever the reason, the boy seemed completely baffled every time he saw a cell phone or Sherlock's laptop. He had also proven himself to be entirely ignorant of any recent events. (Sherlock had noticed this only because of John's attempts at making small talk over the take out. Those, of course, had been ill-fated from the very beginning.) It was possible that Harry's guardians were isolationists, but very unlikely. His clothing was a very popular and expensive brand. As a matter of fact, the detective paid little attention to fashion, but he was quite sure that style had been trending recently. They were also worn and far too large for Harry - the hand-me-downs of someone who had recently grown a lot in a very short matter of time. Probably the pig-like cousin he'd seen the year before.

The point was, though, that his abusers apparently were not isolationists; so why was Harry enthralled with a touchscreen or the newest model of laptop? That, at best, was mildly intriguing. To Sherlock, the second reason was far more important.

That reason was that coincidences were the imaginings of morons, and if they were real at all, they were extremely rare.

Sherlock had noted far too many coincidences, per se, around Harry. The first would have been easily overlooked under most circumstances, but it had also caused him to meet Harry in the first place. He'd been high, his mind so wonderfully cleared and eased by the cocaine rushing through his bloodstream. The unfortunate side effect was his sensitivity to light, but when a lightbulb inexplicably exploded, Sherlock saw it as an opportunity to go somewhere more comfortable than the alley where he'd shot up.

Instead, he ran into a clearly _very_ agitated young and abused runaway.

The second and very obvious coincidence was the very irritating gap in Sherlock's memory, which just _happened_ to coincide with his second 'chance' meeting with Harry, his raging aunt, and his cowardly cousin. If one coincidence was a stretch, two seemed impossible.

The third coincidence had set it in stone: Harry was a case now, and Sherlock was going to solve him. Harry was wandering around a train station with a red-headed man (government worker?) who did not understand how to used money and was also extraordinarily ignorant of things like _electricity_ (clearly _not_ a government worker). This man's clothing was not stylish but passable. He was far too social to be a true isolationist, though. _Two_ people, unrelated, demonstrating isolationist tendencies in spite of themselves? And the red headed man had truly gone _beyond_ isolationism, anyways, especially since the man wasn't foreign and still didn't understand the concept of how to use paper money. Additionally, even a foreigner would know how to pronounce the word 'electricity'.

It was interesting. Very interesting.

Three coincidences could only mean that there were really no coincidences at all. There was, surely, _something_ going on, and Sherlock would have to figure it out. It was really quite lucky that the red-headed man had been so easily fooled. What had his name been again? _Wesley? Weasel?_

As much as Sherlock disliked the idea of some insane conspiracy, he briefly considered a society of people who largely ignored the existence of technology. This group would probably be hidden from the people by the government, based on his disappearing memories. There seemed to be a hole in this theory, though - Mycroft. Sherlock doubted that his brother would allow a government worker to drug him until his memories vanished. Rather, Mycroft would allow him to remember the existence of the secret society whilst bragging that he had known of it when Sherlock had not. In other words, if there was a secret society, Mycroft didn't know of it. There was really very little that went on in Britian that Mycroft didn't know about.

If that possibility seemed unlikely, everything else seemed even less likely. It was possible that Harry's abusers didn't allow him to be exposed to technology or news, but that made very little sense. If there was one thing that Sherlock truly remembered of the teenager's aunt, it was the fact that she had apparently overvalued normalcy and idolized her own mundane lifestyle. If anything, her constant screeches of 'freak' had given _that_ away.

There was also the possibility that Harry himself was simply bery odd and made likewise odd friends. This, too, seemed an unreal possibility. Sherlock knew he would be very disappointed if this turned out to be the truth and was incredibly relieved that Harry seemed to be fairly average in terms of personality - not the type to close himself off on purpose. That nearly eliminated this possibility, which brought him back to the secret society.

How incredibly fascinating that something so outlandish seemed the most likely of anything.

In order to confirm his suspicions, or else formulate new ones, Sherlock would have to keep very close watch on Harry. Everything from how he dressed to how he interacted with others would be useful in determining both the source of Sherlock's memory loss and the reasons for Harry's odd behavior. In fact, Sherlock even found himself wondering how Harry would react to violence, or to one of his experiments.

He heard John sighing frustratedly in the background and turned to him. "Finally," the blond man complained, shaking his head. "I've been trying to talk to you for the past ten minutes. Harry is in your room." He held up his hand, as if to ward off complaints, and added, "He'll not touch anything."

Sherlock sniffed pitifully and John looked satisfied as he headed off to his own room, but the truth was that Sherlock really could not have cared less. In fact, he was rather glad that Harry was in his room since the lock was very easy to pick and Harry would probably feel atrange about locking Sherlock out of his own room, anyways. People did that, though it didn't quite make sense to Sherlock.

And so it happened that Sherlock crept into his own (locked - evidently Harry valued privacy more than Sherlock had initially thought) bedroom and glanced over the boy's sleeping for before wandered over to his suitcase. It was exactly the same suitcase from the years before and still rather worn. Sherlock tugged experimentally on the zipper on the outside pocket, which opened to reveal a rather large amount of socks.

The zipper that opened the large compartment of the suitcase, though, was jammed. Sherlock could feel the hard cover of a book beneath the fabric of the case, but he could _not_ pry the zipper open. Sherlock had never encountered anything as obnoxious as the damned zipper - except, of course, his brother, but Mycroft was in a class of his own.

Sherlock began to pull on the zipper with such strength that it should have broken. It would have been noisy - perhaps it would have woken Harry - but at least he'd be able to open the case. He wondered if it was somehow locked, but that didn't seem to be possible on that particular case. It was, though, clear that Sherlock would not be opening the case that night. Instead, he was reduced to checking Harry's luggage for holes that he could peer through.

It was heavy; completely full. He had somewhere he needed to go immediately after he left Baker Street, then; no time to pack. It seemed possible that he'd be headed off to the very same boarding school he had attended the year Sherlock first encountered him. Sherlock turned the case in his hands. He could feel the insides jostling in the case, so it was mostly filled but with some empty space. The contents were not fragile or liquid, then.

It took some time before he found a hole, about three inches across but otherwise small, hidden near the base of the suitcase in the very back. He held his face rather close to the hole, carefully examining what he saw inside of it: paper. It was heavy paper - expensive - and slightly curled, as if had been rolled up at some point in time. It seemed old, too, but no doubt its placement in the bottom of a case and crushed beneath Harry's possessions had contributed to that.

But more important than the paper was the text that Sherlock could make out - what little wasn't blocked out by the fabric still remaining around the hole. It was in very precise handwriting, obviously not typed - every loop seemed slightly different that the others and some letters were a bit slanted. Besides that, there were a few small blotches of ink that didn't happen with printers - or ballpoints, for that matter. Interesting.

But even more so was the text itself, which read:

'u have already received an official warn

'ious offense under Section 13 of the International

'ards' Statute of Secrecy, we reg

'presence is required at a disciplinary hearing

'gic at 9'

He blinked. The hole was so oddly shaped that he could only read the oddest portions of sentences, but it was rather simple to decipher what he _could_ see. Harry had violated some kind of a law or contract and had faced a hearing because of it. Not only that, but he had violated the contract at least twice. Interesting. How did a young person such as himself become blind by a contract like that? And why?

The secret society, obviously. Sherlock thought of the redheaded man, who had been distinctly delighted to be in London and had stopped Harry walking once in a while to ask about a piece of technology. He'd even asked Harry about their money a couple of times. Those things led Sherlock to introduce the possibility of a hidden society earlier, and that was confirmed now.

It had only taken three words, really - Statute of Secrecy. This, along with the rest of the letter, suggested a law and set of codes. They were apparently separate from England's, too, since England had no 'Statute of Secrecy'. But Harry had obviously never been abroad, so these laws applied here - in Britain, _in England_ , but apart from their laws.

A society, and judging by the 'Statute of Secrecy', one that wished to remain undiscovered.

Sherlock had never been good at respecting the wishes of others.

* * *

When Harry awoke, he was rather devastated to note that his suitcase appeared to have moved a few inches.

Excellent.

It was really lucky that Molly Weasley had put so many spells over his trunk. Otherwise, whoever had been messing with it would have opened it up to see his Potions textbook. Really, they'd see a Chemistry book, but that was only the makeshift dustcover. Open _up_ the book, and they would see a list detailing the making of hundreds of concoctions that would no doubt trigger lots of questions and Obliviators… _again._

Harry hurried over to his suitcase and opened it quickly, yanking out a random bunch of Dudley's clothing and then zipping the case back as soon as he could. The last thing he needed was to give himself away, although Harry did have a knack for attracting trouble and everything would probably go wrong anyways. What would that mean for him, anyways? That Holmes somehow managed to figure out what made Harry so… intriguing to him and decided that Harry was a freak? Not likely. The opinion of some stranger he'd probably never see again wouldn't really affect Harry. His real worry was that he'd wind up in trouble because of the detective's meddling. What would he do without Hogwarts? Would he be stuck living with the Dursleys, or would he live with Sirius? Would he truly never be able to do magic again? Harry's stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought, and he discreetly hurried to a bathroom to change.

We he came out, freshly dressed in a worn grey t-shirt and baggy jeans, he could hear some very quiet discussion in the sitting room. As it turned out, it was the telly, which Holmes was watching, wide-eyed, as Watson stumbled about the kitchen.

Harry thought that he recognized the show as one that Aunt Petunia watched in the kitchen sometimes.

It was going to be a very long week.

* * *

 _Hey guys! Just wanted to let you know that even though I don't have the time to reply to each of you personally, I do appreciate your continued support, including faves and follows._

 **By the way, please note that this is still not Beta'd or Brit Picked. I apologize for any mistakes.**


	6. chapter five

Chapter 5

* * *

Sherlock Holmes did unbelievable things. It was just a part of being Sherlock Holmes. He was unpredictable, clever, and unbelievably annoying. Greg never consciously thought that he'd seen everything, and he never consciously thought that he couldn't be surprised anymore.

But he _never_ in his wildest dreams imagined that Sherlock would come traipsing onto a crime scene with a kid trailing behind him.

Well, in his wildest dreams. Maybe.

But the most alarming thing he noted - only at first, and before he had a chance to look closely - Greg noted that they both had green eyes and dark hair. Red flags went off in his head and somewhere, there was a very loud noise - like and alarm. Or an ambulance siren. _Dammit,_ he thought, _Sherlock's got himself a son._ But then he noticed that, aside from the hair and eyes, and not even the eyes, really, they were remarkably dissimilar. Greg refused to acknowledge exactly how relieved he was.

He tried to gather himself so that he could be irritated at Sherlock for being in a crime scene that he hadn't even been invited to. After all, Sherlock would likely deem it boring anyways. It was cut and dry _even for the police,_ he thought mockingly. The boyfriend had confessed - not that Greg would protest to that. It made things that much easier for him. But more concerning than Sherlock and how very unwelcome he was at that moment in time was the kid himself. Who in their right mind would give Sherlock responsibility over a child? It would probably be safer to let the kid run free in the streets of London, to be mugged, or… or hit by a bus.

"What the hell?" he heard Donovan exclaim angrily in the background, and suddenly she was turning the corner, right behind the hesitant looking teenager and Sherlock. "I told you, you can't come in, Freak!" The kid frowned but said nothing, and Sherlock completely disregarded her.

"Sh-Sherlock," stuttered Greg, still recovering from the almost overwhelming shock caused by the kid, who was now wrinkling his nose at something and glancing curiously around the room. Sherlock allowed himself to wonder whether Sherlock had somehow gotten himself a student. It at least made more sense than _son. After all,_ he thought, almost meanly, _someone with his attitude wouldn't be getting laid anytime soon._ "Look, there's nothing for you here, you need to leave, who's that?" Everything came out in one choppy sentence as he tried to reign in his mixture of curiosity, surprise, and irritation.

"Who'd give the freak a kid, anyways?" Sally Donovan asked spitefully, and Greg shook his head in reply. He was _not_ going to get involved in some stupid shouting match between Donovan and Sherlock. In fact, none of them were, because there was a kid and they were all going to be on their best goddamned behavior.

"Sherlock," Greg said, his voice full of scolding as he glanced at the kid, who was staring at Donovan with something akin to dislike and an air of caution. What was Sherlock thinking, coming to a crime scene uninvited _and_ bringing a kid with him? The body on the floor of the next room over certainly wasn't appropriate for any kid's eyes, and anyways, a kid would probably wreck the crime scene. "You can't have him here. What is he, fourteen?" So not really a kid, but very close.

"Irrelevant," said Sherlock dismissively, waving his hand in an irritatingly familiar manner as he grabbed the kid's arm and dragged him closer than Lestrade. "Anderson over there is living proof that age has little to do with intellect and skill, anyways. Come along, Harry." The kid - Harry - locked his bright green eyes on Greg's. He looked almost pleading, and Greg felt overwhelmingly sympathetic.

"Oi, Sherlock," he snapped, and the man sighed, stopping in his tracks once more and releasing Harry's arm. The boy looked relieved but only slightly. "You can't have a kid on the crime scene - period. This one's cut and dried, anyways. Not your thing. _Case closed,_ " he finished, though the case wasn't legally closed yet. It wasn't as if he needed Sherlock at that moment anyways. And if this case was so simple, and Sherlock so despised simple, why would he want to see the scene, much less the body? If he needed just any body, he could have gone to the morgue. Christ knows Molly Hooper would have given it to him.

"We'll be quick, Lestrade," promised Sherlock, grabbing Harry's arm again and dragging him into the bloodied room to resounding silence.

Greg thought that the silence was entirely disturbing. When was Sherlock _ever_ quiet at a crime scene? Generally, even without the statement of the killer, he would be spouting every detail of the murder just to brag. But now he was completely speechless, and as Anderson and Donovan shot each other questioning looks, Lestrade very carefully inched towards to door of the room, like some something would jump out and attack him.

Even more disturbing, he thought, was the fact that a teenage boy had been dragged into a room splattered with blood and filth, with a corpse in the middle of the floor, and he wasn't screaming his protests. No, Harry took this with complete silence, and when Greg finally stepped into the room, he could see that the boy was indifferent to the scene - or maybe a little resigned, at most. What kind of kid was _resigned_ to death and violence. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed, both frustrated and put off. Harry looked up at him and Lestrade saw a horrible sadness it the pits of his eyes; it was something of a relief. "You -"

"Hmmm," muttered Sherlock, glancing around the room and then finally at the victim's shoe. "A double murder. We'll be off now." He gestured at Harry, who followed quickly, looking glad to be out of the room.

"Er - wait!" Lestrade yelled, hurrying after them. "Who -"

"This is Harry. I am acquainted to his current guardians," Sherlock explained hurriedly. He looked as if he wanted to dash off, like he had plenty of other places to be - and knowing Sherlock, he probably did. Still, it didn't excuse him showing up at random with a strange kid and then dashing off moments later with no explanation. Greg wouldn't allow that - not this time. It was one thing for Sherlock to run off without saying anything and get _himself_ hurt. with a child involved, it was entirely different.

"Okay," Greg said calmly, taking a deep, even breath before glancing at Harry again. "He didn't kidnap you, did he?" Harry looked mildly amused and shook his head. Holmes looked almost infuriated. "What's this about, then?" Lestrade said, this time to Sherlock. "Why'd you have to bring him here? Does he even know where he is? Who we are?"

"Of course. I informed him that we would be visiting an acquaintance of mine, Detective Inspector Gavin Lestrade," Sherlock replied, almost sarcastically. Lestrade ignored the jab at his name (because was it actually possible for Sherlock to _forget_ anything ever?) and heard someone huff in the background. "And his less competent colleagues," he added thoughtfully.

"Yeah, well," Anderson began, and Greg was itching to cut her off, "kids don't belong here. So why _is_ he here, Freak?"

Sherlock looked almost smug and Harry's nose wrinkled again. "It's an experiment." With that, he turned away and began walking, quickly, Greg knew there was no way he'd be stopping again.

"You can't experiment on a kid, Sherlock!" he called.

"Don't worry too much," the retreating figure replied coldly. "I am only evaluating young Harry's psychological state at the moment." And then, in an instant, he was outside and probably gone a minute later.

"Wait," Greg said. "Double murder?"

* * *

Harry hadn't expected that Holmes was going to force him to look at the dead body of a woman who'd been shot in the head and then slashed about as if with a butcher's knife. It hadn't even crossed his mind that any responsible adult would purposefully expose a student to that, but clearly, he wasn't at all responsible. Harry always tried to be respectful of his elders - with few exceptions - but if he didn't know better, he would have called Holmes a nutter. After all, the man certainly behaved accordingly.

Harry wondered if he should have been more disturbed by the dead woman than he was. Sure, it bothered him that somebody had been murdered; that was never right and never just. And he'd certainly been bothered by the smell. He had noticed the metallic stench of blood that clung to the air the instant he'd entered the house, after all. But seeing the blood hadn't been scary. At its worst he had been slightly disturbed by it, but only because it reminded him of the human life that had been extinguished there. A murderer may have stood exactly where he'd been standing. Yes, that bothered him. Harry's own parents had been murdered, as had Cedric Diggory - all of them _in front of him_.

Maybe that was why the corpse hadn't much bothered him. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had seen death and felt agonizing pain so many times that he was desensitized to it. He didn't even know the woman who'd laid cold and lifeless on the floor. He hadn't seen her die. His only connection to her was that they were both human, and that connection was so insignificant that he'd only felt a pang of sadness at her death.

The real cause of his sadness, he decided, had been realizing there was a dead person there in the room, which had jerked him straight back into the graveyard, surrounded by Death Eaters and forced to face his worst enemy. His parents had spoken to him, their souls temporarily projected from Voldemort's wand. He'd long since become used to being an orphan, but now, the wound felt fresh, like it was a scab he'd scratched at until he fell away, leaving a new and bleeding wound.

He wondered, almost humorously, what Mr. Holmes had 'deduced' about his mental state. He probably knew, at the very least, that he'd been exposed to violence, but Harry couldn't guess the details. Mad or not, the man was a genius, and his intellect was far beyond Harry's. He briefly considered what would happen if Sherlock and Hermione were to meet up, but doubted they'd get along. Hermione was incredibly kind-hearted even if she was something of a know-it-all,while Sherlock was not at all nice. Besides that, they were clever in completely different ways. Hermione was booksmart and had astounding abilities as a witch while Sherlock was all-around intelligent (or that's how Harry understood the situation so far). He'd probably be completely lost if he knew there was magic out there, though, since he was so deeply rooted into Muggle sciences.

Harry twitched with sudden acknowledgement that Holmes was staring at him. That was fairly normal. He'd spent the majority of a couple of days staring at him, and if Watson's reaction was anything to go by, it was odd that he hadn't become 'bored' yet. Every time this was brought up, Harry had to hold back a snort. If Holmes was bored, he'd brought it upon himself. It wasn't Harry's job to entertain him. Then again, it also hadn't been Harry's job to save the Sorcerer's or pluck Ginny from the clutches of Tom Riddle. It certainly shouldn't have been his job to step in for the Ministry of Magic and actually find out what had happened the night his parents had died. They were the government - the justice system. They should have determined that Sirius was innocent.

And it shouldn't have been Harry's job to proclaim that Voldemort had risen again only to face the ridicule of everyone from the media to the Minister of Magic himself. But it was. Why was everything Harry's job? How was it fair to place all the weight f the Wizarding world on one young man's shoulders, with only his two close friends for support? And now, not even Dumbledore would look at him. Maybe Dumbledore had taken a stand for him at his trial and reformed the Order, but was it possible that he was doubting Harry too?

Harry felt sick to his stomach, and wasn't sure if it was rage or sadness or frustration at that point. He only knew that Mr. Holmes beside him had probably spotted it by now.

Finally, the cab came to a stop, and Harry waited until Holmes had stepped out to follow. They were back at Baker Street, probably so that Holmes could pout about everything he knew and everything he didn't. The man did an awful lot of pouting. He was basically an overgrown genius toddler. Of course, it could also mean a number of other things. Harry had only been there for a day and a half, so he really had no way of knowing exactly what it was that the two men did on a regular basis.

"It is interesting that you have failed to show any sign of disgust at the scene of a murder," Sherlock intoned from in front of Harry as he opened the door, signaling that it was not only a time for him to think but also a chance to grill Harry some more. Harry couldn't say he was entirely surprised, but he wasn't happy about it. He'd basically been thrown into a state of emotional turmoil. He was sure he wouldn't be able to focus properly, which would -

Oh, so that's why he did it. Harry wouldn't be able to focus, and in his emotional state, hidden though it was, he would be unable to lie properly. Clearly, he was being prepped for some kind of interrogation in addition to having his psychological state evaluated. Mr. Holmes was killing two birds with one stone. Harry shut the door securely behind him and followed Holmes up the stairs without answering. What could he say, anyways? It was true.

"This along with your abuse and neglect as a child leads be to believe that you were exposed to violence, even at an early age," Holmes muttered, though Harry knew he wasn't truly being spoken to. If he answered, Holmes probably wouldn't listen to him, anyways. "The worst of this violence was most likely not at your home, or your abuse at the hands of your relatives would have to to the attention of child services. So perhaps it's that boarding school you go to." At this, complete and utter silence. Holmes had hit it spot on. Harry didn't like that he'd pinpointed the school, because it made Hogwarts sound horrible. Hogwarts was incredible - the closest thing to home that he'd ever had. It wasn't the source of his problems, was it?

It couldn't be.

Holmes laid down on the sofa, his hands steepled beneath his chin (as ever) and Harry sat on one of the chairs. It was almost uncomfortably soft, and he squirmed for a moment before settling down. He hadn't had lunch but he wasn't hungry. In fact, he entirely rejected the idea of food. He was seemingly resigned to being without comfort at the moment, and all thanks to some poor dead woman and Holmes's coldness towards everything and everyone. He couldn't help but resent the man for it.

"What is your school called, Harry?" Holmes asked, making it sound like a casual question when it was obviously anything but. He'd probably used that one bit of information to deduce the entire rest of Harry's life.

Harry decided to go with his Aunt and Uncle's cover story. There was probably some kind of a false record of that floating around, anyways, and if he made something up on the spot, Holmes would probably know right away. "St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys," he answered dispassionately, hoping that he'd not ask much else, because Harry couldn't really tell him anything about St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.

Holmes snorted. "That's hardly fitting. You are a rulebreaker but not a lawbreaker," he informed Harry, as if Harry would not know that about himself.

"No," Harry agreed.

"That would explain your ignorance of technology," Holmes mused quietly. Harry wondered if maybe his Aunt or Uncle was cleverer than they looked. "It is doubtful, however, that you will have experienced anything worse than a fistfight in such a 'school'." Or maybe not. "Either way, such information can be easily acquired."

"Mmmm," Harry agreed.

"You live with your aunt. Were your parents murdered?" Holmes asked, like absolutely nothing was wrong with somebody's parents being killed. Harry hated him for being so casual.

"Yes," he answered, feeling himself grow increasingly cold.

"You witnessed that, didn't you," Holmes stated, "but that isn't it."

Harry said nothing, and Holmes got up to play the violin Harry had seen only briefly earlier.

It was incredibly calming and even though it was probably not for his benefit - Holmes wasn't really the type - Harry felt almost grateful. Whatever Holmes was playing was slow and lovely and calm. It seemed to help him gather his thoughts, and he wondered if that was what Holmes used it for. He wasn't going to complain. Harry wasn't exactly music savvy, but he thought that the older man was a wonderful player. He thought he could sit there and let the music wash over him for whatever remained of the day. What time was it, anyways? Harry glanced about for a clock, but he couldn't seem to find one and he certainly didn't have any kind of phone.

As it turned out, it didn't matter, because it was late enough for Harry to grow tired. He awoke on the couch the next morning.

* * *

Downstairs and outside, Sherlock Holmes growled at the door and adjusted the knocker before storming inside.

* * *

 _Long chapter for you guys, yea! I actually wrote the vast majority of this this evening._

 _I'm thinking about commissioning a cover since I can't find the muse to draw one myself ono_

 _We'll find out about Mycroft very soon, I promise (; Thanks for all of your reviews!_


	7. chapter six

Chapter 6

* * *

 _A few minutes earlier_

* * *

Mycroft's sudden appearance wasn't entirely unexpected, but that wouldn't make Sherlock anu happier about it. Honestly, those two had the worst inter-sibling relationship John had ever had the misfortune of seeing. Even Harry and himself weren't that bad (not at the present, anyways). He felt bad that Harry the younger would probably be forced to observe the brothers interactions - or even that he'd have to take part in them. After all, John had no problem imagining that Harry was the sole reason for Mycroft's appearance.

John hadn't even seen Mycroft yet - only his dark and expensive pulling away from the flat after seeing it stopped there for less than an instant - and he was already dreading the meeting. Sherlock wasn't even at the flat to deflect attention from Harry, who would surely be on the receiving end of Mycroft's negative attentions. John vowed not to wake the boy up. Hopefully Mycroft wouldn't, either, though John somehow doubted that he would directly address the boy at all. _Get back to the bloody flat, now,_ John ordered Sherlock via text. Hopefully his friend would mistake it for an urgent cry for help (which, of course, it was). If John even made a passing mention of Mycroft, Sherlock would probably avoid Baker Street for the rest of the day. He gave a whole new meaning to 'sibling rivalry'.

Mycroft Holmes wandered into the room without so much as a knock, leaning casually against his ever-present umbrella and glancing distastefully at the mess. "Mycroft," John greeted, as if he hadn't the faintest idea that Mycroft had been coming or why he was there. This was absolute bullshit, but Mycroft didn't need to know that. "You - er, you should have a seat. I expect Sherlock will be here soon enough."

Mycroft nodded his agreement and said, "Yes, I imagine that text you sent him has my little brother very excited. He is likely under the impression that it has to do with his newest experiment." John thought he'd never heard the word 'experiment' spoken so scathingly, except perhaps by Anderson or Donovan. He said it almost the way one might say 'pet' in a certain context - or maybe the way one might mention a slug or a pile of excrement.

"Uh, yes. Perhaps so," John answered quickly. "Shall I put the kettle on?" Hopefully not. He didn't want to turn his back on Mycroft, who was now sitting in the chair not occupied by Harry and surveying the motionless lump that was the aforementioned boy. The tip of his umbrella was lightly pressed into the floor as he leaned back in the chair, his neck bent so that he could comfortably observe the boy. John was sure that Harry would wake soon simply because of the feeling of being stared at; was there anything more disturbing, really? _And when he's sleeping, too,_ John thought with a shake of his head.

"That would be lovely," Mycroft monotoned. "I may be here for some time." John looked at the clock. It was around ten, which meant that Harry had definitely been sleeping for a very long time, but he'd been with Sherlock all day the day before. Sherlock did wear people out - even John himself - and he'd decided it would be fine to leave the boy alone. Obviously, it was going to be a very long day, which meant that whatever extra rest Harry had gotten would very probably be put to use.

In spite of himself, John hurried away to make the tea. He was careful to pay very close attention to sound, just in case Mycroft started to do something out of line. Even Sherlock had better sense than his brother sometimes, and while Sherlock hadn't woken Harry this morning (not that he made an effort to be quiet), John wasn't sure if Mycroft wouldn't poke the kid with his umbrella or something. The idea was hilarious, but, in John's mind, just possible enough to be feared.

"How _has_ my brother been, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked dryly behind him.

"Um, quite well, I think," answered John uncertainly. "Er, a bit - bit busy." That, at least, he knew. According to Sherlock, Harry was 'intriguing' and 'something of an enigma'. John could see it, a little - the kid wouldn't even tell them his last name, but maybe that was because Sherlock had sort-of kidnapped him (they'd both vehemently denied it, but John wasn't sure he believed either of them). After all, Sherlock wasn't always the most honest person ever, and he didn't know Harry from Adam. Besides, why would someone _give_ Sherlock a child? _They'd have to be entirely mad!_

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed calmly, though he sounded almost tiredly. _Sherlock even exhausts Mycroft,_ John thought, pleased with his earlier decision to let Harry sleep. That aside, it also implied that Mycroft found Sherlock's association with a child - or maybe it was just Harry? - particularly troubling. Obviously, this was not a comfort, because as obnoxious as Mycroft's interference could sometimes seem, he did his job well. If Mycroft thought something was wrong, it probably was.

Based off of the fact that John could _not_ feel Mycroft's gaze pinning him to the kitchen counter, he assumed that he was still staring at Harry. Therefore, it was no surprise when, about a minute later, a small grunt and whining yawn came from the direction of Harry's chair. John turned to see the top of Harry's head just over the back of his seat; his black hair was unimaginably messy, and for a moment he considered informing Harry of the location of Sherlock's product. Everything became quiet, though, and John could only assume that Harry had opened his eyes only to be engaged in a staredown with Mycroft Holmes.

Harry had apparently handled Sherlock's antics well enough. Mycroft was very similar to Sherlock but somehow worse. He gave off an aura of invulnerability, just as Sherlock did, but something about him was just different enough to put everyone on guard. Perhaps it was the fact that, unlike Sherlock, whose bark was generally worse than his bite ( _generally_ ) Mycroft tended to hold his tongue, instead lending to the impression that he would use everything he noticed now to destroy you later - or that he could, anyways. John wasn't really willing to let Harry deal with that for too long, so he coughed. "Er, Harry, good morning. Fancy some tea?"

Harry seemed to loosen up but not by too much. He very slowly turned his head from Mycroft to face John and nodded, looking grateful and relieved all at once. "Thanks. That'd be nice," he said calmly, though his green eyes were so expressionate that it was easy to tell he did _not_ like Mycroft. He looked almost relieved to break eye contact with the elder Holmes. John gave him a sympathetic glance and turned back to the tea, keeping close attention to the sounds in case of of the occupants of the sitting room started to do something out of line. It would more than likely be Mycroft, but if Harry really was the sort of person who caught Sherlock's attention, John wanted to be careful regardless of the kid's age.

"Er, Harry," he began, after a minute of silence that, to him, seemed exceedingly awkward. "That's Mycroft - Sherlock's older brother." _At least now he knows who it is that's staring at him that way._ John glanced back and, sure enough, Mycroft's calculating gaze was _still_ on Harry.

"Oh," replied Harry. He took the tea from John (as did Mycroft) and moved to the sofa so that John could take his own seat. "It's nice to meet you, Mir. Holmes," he added insincerely, as if he thought two Holmeses were too many. Again, John directed a sympathetic glance at the boy, who went right back to sipping at his tea. Mycroft wasn't really staring at him anymore, but Harry still appeared to be facing some level of discomfort. He shifted in his spot and then held more still, glancing at Mycroft and then at a spot on the wall far behind him.

Mycroft's mouth opened, possibly to say something that could be interpreted as terribly rude, and so did the door. _It's a godsend._ Sherlock swept in, looking twice as dramatic as usual "Harry," he greeted, sounding almost terrifyingly giddy. "We'll have to talk. Mycroft is just leaving."

"No, dear brother," contradicted Mycroft, his calm contrasting sharply with Harry's split second of alarm. He turned to Sherlock, sitting straight up and turning the tip of his umbrella into the floor. "Of all the things that you could have done, Sherlock - experimenting on children is not a good way to spend your time."

John was surprised to find himself disagreeing with Mycroft. Sherlock actually hadn't done anything _too_ horrible to Harry; sure, he'd taken him to a crime scene and had asked him an absurdly exhausting number of questions, but considering how the sociopath usually treated people, that was borderline polite. In fact, Harry seemed to have been more bothered by Mycroft in a matter of minutes than Sherlock had bothered him in nearly two days now. "He's been fine," he pointed out, gesturing to Harry. "I mean, he's certainly been tired, but Sherlock hasn't done anything awful. He's still… intact," he finished dully.

Sherlock looked almost smug.

Mycroft sighed tiredly, as if dealing with John's ordinary brainpower was simply too much to handle. "You fail to take into consideration Sherlock's reputation. No doubt the media will soon be publishing theories of some relation or another." _That's a fair point._ But Sherlock wouldn't care about that and would likely be willing not only to deny any relation to Harry, but also to point out exactly _why_ they were so _obviously_ not related. "Additionally, my brother cannot be allowed to do _everything_ he pleases. This includes taking children from strangers he meets at train stations under a false premise - no matter how intriguing those children might be."

Sherlock looked a little less smug now. In fact, he looked on the verge of pouting. John let a small snort escape his lips and Sherlock glared at him. Then he caught on to the latter end of Mycroft's sentence. "Wait, 'under a false premise'? Sherlock!"

"But I _am_ associated with his aunt…" he whined. "It wasn't completely false."

"As I recall," Mycroft began, rolling his eyes at his brother, "you reported to Harry's guardian that you were a close friend of Harry's uncle and practically his uncle yourself. Have you ever _met_ young Harry's uncle, Sherlock?" His voice was cool and smooth, but the smug look on his face said he knew he was backing Sherlock into a corner. "And when have you _ever_ showed interest in playing a role in _any_ child's life - including that of an 'uncle'?"

Sherlock sighed, waving his hand dismissively. John had come to realize that Sherlock did this in arguments when Mycroft was actually saying something valid and Sherlock didn't want to accept it. "All of that is irrelevant," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and anybody who thought otherwise was an idiot. _He always sounds like that, though, doesn't he?_ "Harry is interesting and I am not returning him."

"Sh-Sherlock -" sputtered John, shaking his head. "He's a teenage boy, not some kind of toy for you to fool around with until you get tired of it."

"Yes, I _know,_ John," Sherlock agreed petulantly. John was not fool enough to think he was giving in so quickly; no doubt he was going to say something utterly ridiculous in his own defense - "I'm only allowed to keep him for three more days." _And there it is._

"No, Sherlock, you won't be _keeping_ him any more at all," snapped Mycroft. "This is ridiculous. Stop behaving like a child."

There was a very long pause. "I'll take one of your cases."

"Three," offered Mycroft disagreeably, glancing back at Harry, who looked mildly alarmed.

"One," argued Sherlock.

"Two," Mycroft said in return.

This only happened in relation to things that Sherlock thought were vitally important. He hated Mycroft's cases, after all - always complained that they were boring and that the only reason Mycroft gave them to him was because they involved legwork. So it was mildly alarming that he was bartering now. After all, what was it about a teenager that could be vitally important to _anything?_

"You will take two cases of mine," Mycroft was saying unbudgingly. "Otherwise, we will return the boy to his guardians and that will be the end of it."

Sherlock sniffed. "It's hardly appropriate for the British government to return a child to his abusers, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked unsurprised, and once again, John found himself _very_ upset. "Abusers?" He had many reasons for being upset, not the least of which was that any person who made it their business to terrorize children were disgusting. Enablers, he thought, were just as bad - and if Mycroft and Sherlock were both aware that Harry's real family, whoever they were, were abusive but still willing to send him back at any time, _they_ were enablers. "Well, obviously you can't send him back then." To him, it was _that_ simple. _As it should be._

Mycroft simply raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock seized the chance to belittle his brother. "The British Government has _better_ and _more important_ things to do than worry about the wellbeing of children.

Generally, John tolerated the Holmes sibling rivalry; found it amusing, even. After all, it was funny to see the great detective Sherlock Holmes reduced to the equivalent of a feuding toddler, and it was also a _little_ fun to see him outwitted by his brother once in awhile. But really, it could be quite annoying and even if John did love his best friend, right now he just wouldn't stand for it. " _You_ were going to send him back to them, too," John snapped, apparently catching Sherlock off-guard.

"I never said that," Sherlock denied finally, and John opened his mouth to protest. "I said he'd be leaving for _school._ "

 _What?_

"Never mind your domestic," interrupted Mycroft, who looked utterly bored with it all. "Sherlock is incapable of caring for himself, much less a child for any length of time. I will be sure to inform you of two cases when the time comes." He stood slowly, and turned around, pinning his eyes on Harry. The teenager looked not alarmed but just baffled now; completely and totally confused as to what had happened and why, exactly. "Harry will escort me to the door."

 _Now_ he looked alarmed. John stood up, ready to relieve the boy of that particular task, but Sherlock stopped him, holding up a hand. It was like a signal not to worry, that it would be fine, but John was so confused about Sherlock that he didn't sit down until Harry had already walked past him. "Harry, you don't have to," he lied, and the boy shook his head.

"No, it's alright, Mr. Watson. I'll be fine," Harry insisted, and John could tell that he really believed it, and that, in spite of being a little intimidated by Mycroft, Harry didn't see him as much of a threat. And what did that _mean_? Simply that Harry was stupid or mistaken? _What if this fourteen-year-old has faced challenges that make Mycroft Holmes pale in comparison?_ The thought sent a shiver down John's spine, but he still wanted to warn the kid. Escorting Mycroft to the door really meant that Mycroft would be manipulating Harry out of Sherlock's sight, using whole new methods to try and intimidate him.

But then, in seconds, they were gone.

"Harry," he heard Sherlock muse, and turned on his friend quickly.

"He just left the room!" John snapped. "With _Mycroft!_ How could you not notice that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned at him, as if he wasn't quite sure why John was so angry. And maybe he wasn't; after all, it was for a large number of reasons. _The abuse, the enabling…_ "Of _course_ I noticed that, John," Sherlock said, sounding equally disagreeable. "I found it odd that Mycroft referred to Harry by his first name. My brother is _very_ formal, you know."

"What?" John said, now so confused that he couldn't have sounded angry anymore; if he had, it would have been more comical than anything.

" _Mycroft_ doesn't know who Harry is," Sherlock said simply, a small, smug grin gracing his lips, his eyes alight with curiosity.

"What?" John echoed, now with disbelief.

"I told you it was a case, John."

* * *

 _This chapter came to me pretty easily, kind of wrote itself, I guess._

 _By the way, guys - three hundred eleven followers._ 311\. _Crap. Well, you guys are amazing. **Thank you** to each and every one of you. I really hope it's been worth the read so far, and that you've enjoyed it._


	8. chapter seven

Chapter 7

* * *

Harry was pretty sure that Mycroft Holmes's position in the British government was about as minor as Lord Voldemort was cute. Something about the man made him wary and Harry had learned to trust his gut instincts. He'd have to watch his step from now on. After all, the elder Holmes was undoubtedly clever - only a few minutes alone with him had made that quite clear. One wrong step and Harry thought he could be in serious trouble.

Maybe he'd been wrong about Sherlock Holmes, then. Harry was still sure he was a complete nutter, but he was also willing to consider that he might, too, be incredibly smart and not just a freaky stalker. In that case, he'd probably be best to never say anything about his school or home life, even if it meant that he really and truly had to pretend that he went to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. After all, it was fairly clear that John,at least, was in a state of disbelief about that, even if Sherlock thought it might be true since he'd met Harry's aunt and knew _exactly_ how she felt about her nephew. But soon, Harry was sure he'd agree wit John, if he didn't already. After all, he'd already decided that, as he specified, Harry wasn't a _lawbreaker,_ and, at the very least, _shouldn't_ be going to a school for incurably criminal boys. So even if Harry put on an act, how long would it last?

 _Priorities,_ Harry thought, mentally chiding himself. If he needed to, Harry could probably just leave - just vanish back to Grimmauld Place where Holmes (either of them) wouldn't be able to find him. Sure, they'd think it was odd that he'd disappeared, but they wouldn't be able to _do_ anything about it. So keeping his act up wasn't really important - what was important was making sure that, whether he was acting or not, he didn't do any magic or reference it at all. Because clearly, the more powerful Holmes brother, Mycroft, hadn't known a thing about magic, or who Harry was. That made things simple - even if Mycroft had power, he obviously didn't have any sway in the magic community, so if his younger brother managed to 'deduce' the Statute of Secrecy to pieces, he would be able to do anything about it, power or no. So Harry would simply concern himself more with what Holmes the younger could deduce about magic rather than what he could deduce about Harry..

The idea made so little sense in Harry's head that he doubted it would work, but he knew it would probably be better for Sherlock to deduce that he had weird nightmares than for him to deduce that he had supernatural powers of any kind. It'd get him kicked out of school and, worse, stuck with the Dursleys for the rest of his childhood. How was he supposed to deal with Voldemort without magic? And how would he stop the Dursleys bashing his head in the first chance they got. _Besides_ \- Harry shivered - _Sherlock does experiments. Wouldn't it be interesting to experiment of a magic person.?_ The idea was more than likely ridiculous, but Harry still didn't know what was in the fridge, and for all he knew, Sherlock _might_ do horrible things to people, no matter what John said about the origin of the blood in the jar (or the rotting thumbs Harry had found on the stovetop).

 _Right, so, er, no magic,_ Harry thought, summarizing his muddled thoughts as he hurried back into the flat and sat uncomfortably on the sofa. John was so busy being irritated at Sherlock about something - something about the weird smell in the kitchen - that for a moment, neither of them paid any attention. "Sherlock, I can deal with the congealed blood and the eyeballs -" _Eyeballs?_ "- but it's disgusting in here. All you can smell is rot. Can't you find another place to do these things?"

"I just disposed of the thumbs last evening, John," Sherlock answered pleasantly from his spot in his chair. He sounded as if he thought nothing wrong and that Watson was being silly to worry about the smell of rotting flesh. Harry could sort of see his point; the smell was there, yeah, but it wasn't strong. Maybe it was worse in the kitchen. That aside, he could also see Watson's point; whether or not the smell is strong, people tend to become alarmed when their home smells like a decomposing body. "That means that I've finished the experiment, John." He suddenly sounded less pleasant, and more amused with himself, as if he was getting ready to make some kind of joke. Was there a note of frustration there, too? "I'm bored."

There was some clattering in the kitchen, and Harry glanced towards the source of the noise. Watson looked positively alarmed as he said, "Sherlock, no!" This was followed by a very loud banging noise. Harry tensed, and something in the corner of his eyes flashed blue. "Sherlock!" John scolded. "Look, you've frightened Harry. And you know how Mrs. Hudson feels about -" The banging noise repeated twice more, though Harry wasn't as startled this time, and whatever had flashed blue didn't do it again. Still, he wished that the sound would stop and just as he looked up, hands poised to cover his ears, he saw that Sherlock was holding a gun (or hand been, since Watson was pulling it from his limp hand). The shorter man looked positively enraged. "Sherlock! And -" he shook his head irritably, letting out a loud sigh as he hurried over to his laptop. "My computer's crashed!"

Harry frowned. So that's what the blue flashing had been. And weren't computers expensive? He felt guilty. He clearly needed to learn to better control his underage magic. It was causing trouble for him and everybody else. Sherlock obviously wouldn't be able to pin something so random on him, but Harry thought there was a very real chance that his magic could out him someday. "That's hardly _my_ fault, John," whined Sherlock. "I'm bored." _How,_ Harry thought, _is that a valid reason for shooting three holes in the wall?_ Harry wasn't a Muggle, of course, and knew next to nothing about guns. But it probably wasn't safe to shoot one indoors. "I need a case."

"No, Sherlock," Watson answered firmly, looking up from his laptop for a split second and then looking back down at it. He was now typing rapidly, the clicking of the keys out of time with his words. " _You_ brought a child to the flat and it is _your_ responsibility to keep up with him."

"Harry will come with -"

" _No_ he _won't,_ " John snapped. "Half of your cases wind up being dangerous -" Harry had to resist snorting "- and you aren't getting a teenager involved in that. Greg already called to tell me you'd taken the boy to a crime scene - a _murder,_ Sherlock, with -"

"Who's Greg?"

There was a very long pause. "Greg _Lestrade,_ Sherlock! Lestrade!"

'Ah," Sherlock said dismissively. "Yes, I did, and Harry was fine. It won't be a _dangerous_ case -"

"And _how,_ Sherlock, could you _possibly_ predict that?" Watson had put his computer down. He looked rather resigned, and Harry realized that he must not have been able to fix it himself. He hoped that somebody else would - Sherlock, maybe, or some kind of a technician. "If you wanted to go on cases, you should have thought about that before you dragged an - an…" He paused, swallowing hard, as if he couldn't get the words out. " _Abused_ teenager to the scene of a violent crime."

"There it is," Sherlock said carelessly. "I told you, John, he didn't respond negatively."

But Harry _was_ responding negatively, to the whole of that conversation. _Abused._ He knew he was abused, neglected by his relatives, but putting it out in the open made it seem a whole lot worse than it was, even to Harry. Or maybe what was really happening was that Harry was seeing it in a better light now - seeing how much smaller he'd been than all of his classmates all his life, feeling the beatings he'd taken from Dudley and Uncle Vernon, hearing the harsh words Aunt Petunia had hurled at him whenever he was listening and even when he wasn't, Seeing the darkness and smelling the dusty air of his cramped cupboard, where he'd be locked for misbehaving even now. Wondering why _nobody_ had ever done anything about it even though Harry had been surrounded by powerful, strong people for the past four years. Sure, it would be impossible for anyone to ever make the Dursleys _love_ him, and if Dudley's size was any indication of how the Dursleys showed their affections, Harry didn't want that, anyways. But couldn't somebody have made sure the Dursleys were feeding him? Giving him proper clothing, since the Dursleys were well off and should have been able to afford it? Not smacking him around and insulting him to his face?

His first letter from Hogwarts had specifically address Harry from _the cupboard under the stairs!_ Someone had known about it and done nothing!

Whatever argument Sherlock was now making came to an abrupt end. Watson's computer began to smoke, and then caught on fire. Watson let out and ungodly shout and smothered it with a blanket.

Harry forced himself to relax, and suddenly noticed that Sherlock was staring at him. What must he look like? Pale, he was sure, lips drawn into a thin line, green eyes narrowed in absolute rage as he struggled to calm himself. Whether or not his anger had been righteous - and Harry was pretty sure it had been - Harry now knew that he definitely had to keep it under control. That was only a laptop, but what about people? What if someone got hurt. Also, he selfishly thought, I'll get myself kicked out of school. School. Hogwarts. Where there was probably somebody who'd known he'd slept in a cupboard. Did Dumbledore know? Or McGonagall? She'd signed the letters, after a -

No. Calm down, Harry told himself, turning his thoughts completely away from anything that he thought might trigger and irritation on his part. "I - er, I wasn't really bothered by the crime scene," he said lamely, resting his chin on his palms and his elbows on his knees.

Sherlock looked incredibly smug. "I told you, John."

"It doesn't matter," John answered. The death of his laptop had apparently left him in a permanent state of rage, if the look on his face was any indication.

Sherlock frowned. "Why ever not, John? After all the shouting you've just done, it wouldn't surprise me if Harry would do anything to get out of the flat."

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say, even if it was within reason (though untrue. Yes, Harry wanted out of the flat - he wanted to do something. Anything to keep his mind off of the doubts - doubts he prayed were unfounded- inspired by the mere presence of Sherlock Holmes. A crime scene, and some kind of thrilling case, would probably do just that.). "Don't you dare try and shift the blame on me! You've already proven you don't care about how Harry feels at all - you knew he was abused and you're just going to ship him off when you're done anyways! You did nothing, and neither did your brother. I thought you were better than that, Sherlock, but you obviously aren't responsible enough to take care of a child for long enough to solve a case."

"I never said that," Sherlock argued. "I never explicitly said that Harry would be sent back to his relatives - Mycroft did."

"It… was… implied," Watson said slowly, as if he thought Sherlock was quite stupid.

"No, it wasn't," replied Sherlock with a wave of his hand. "You heard me say that Harry was abused, and then you observed Mycroft's response, and drew a conclusion for that. I am not my brother, John, and I had no intention of sending Harry back to an abusive household." He said this final part with a lot of passion, but Harry was still fairly certain that he was lying. Sherlock Holmes probably thought he was too important to deal with something as mundane as what Harry had faced all his life, if his impression of the man was accurate at all. And, after all, it wasn't as if it was the first time ever that Harry had met Sherlock - the man had two other chances to fix the situation before and he hadn't.

But John must not have known anything about that, because he looked a little relieved, if still upset. "Look, I'm sure Lestrade doesn't appreciate you dragging Harry around his crime scenes."

Sherlock had made progress, and he recognized it. His eyes lit up with triumph, and he shook his head. "He'll put up with it, John."

"Maybe you should call and ask -"

"Of course I will," Sherlock said, though everyone in the room knew he was blatantly lying.

"And how do I know you'll remember to feed Harry?"

"I'm not going to starve him," said Sherlock soberly.

There was another one of those long, drawn out pauses. "No, of course not." And then: "No experiments on his person or around it. And we'll talk about this more later."

Harry was watching Watson, but he thought he saw Sherlock roll his eyes. "Of course not."

"Harry, do you want to go? You could, er -" Watson paused. "I suppose you could sit in the waiting room if you w -"

"Boring," Sherlock interrupted. "Do go and change, Harry, or I'll leave without you. Hurry up."

* * *

As Harry pulled on his socks, he was freshly reminded of how it had felt to wake up the morning of the first task, knowing that he'd have to fight a dragon that very day, and wondering if it would possibly be his last.

* * *

 _May I just say that I actually made myself genuinely angry when I was writing this? I think you can guess where._

 _A couple of people asked for a timeline of some sort, so here it is. It is August 29, 2011. It is the summer before Harry's fifth year of school and the time in between the first and second episodes of Sherlock's second season. Hope that helps (:_ _I am also going to explain why Mycroft doesn't know about Harry and the wizarding world, since several people were confused about that._

 _The wizarding world wants to isolate themselves and they do a very good job of it. If a Muggle observes magic being done, unless that Muggle has a witch or wizard in their immediate family, they are Obliviated. Therefore, if Mycroft ever saw anyone doing magic, his memory was probably marked. Now, I've seen people who used Mycroft as the 'ambassador' to the wizarding world because he technically has more power than the Prime Minister. But the way I see it, no one in the wizarding world (no one with any authority, anyways) would know about that. Why? Because they know_ nothing _about Muggles. Take Arthur Weasley as an example - he works in an office that requires him to interact with Muggles on occasion, or he must have at least taken Muggle Studies at some point. But he doesn't even know how to properly say 'telephone' or 'electricity', much less how the Muggle hierarchy works. In other words, most of the people in the wizarding government are probably so clueless that they don't even know about Mycroft, and if they did, they wouldn't care. Don't forget that most wizards, even if they aren't as outward about it as Death Eaters or Draco Malfoy, believe themselves to be above Muggles. They probably wouldn't have gone to any lengths to decide who it was they needed to work with in order to for a strong, functional bond with the Muggle government, probably because they don't really believe they need that bond, anyways._


	9. chapter eight

Chapter 8

* * *

Sherlock could not recall the last time John had been so upset with him, or about _anything,_ for that matter. Given the near-perfect state of his memory, he decided that was most likely because he had never seen John so angry before. Why? John had dealt with murderers, torturers, and rapists in the last year. Their actions had certainly provoked an emotional response of some kind, but he had never been one to project. John who'd had a bad breakup in his twenties. John who hadn't spoken to his sister in several months, except to quiet her rude comments on his blog. John whose parents were both dead and rarely mentioned, but had not been abusive.

It was not, of course, puzzling why a sensible adult would be more upset about child abuse than the murder of a capable adult. Starving or beating someone unable to defend themselves is nothing more than cowardly, and for someone like John, who seemed, at times, to be ruled by emotion, it was no stretch at all that he would be very upset about the ruin of the defenseless and vulnerable. Sherlock simply didn't understand why John would be so upset at _him_ ; Sherlock had nothing to do with the abuse, and he really _hadn't_ said that he was planning on sending Harry back to his abusers.

It hadn't crossed his mind at all, but then, neither had helping him. And now, thanks to John's arguing - _which was over-the-top and uncalled for_ \- he had somehow managed to rope himself into some kind of a rescue mission. As it was, Sherlock already had enough to concentrate on. The correlation between Harry's emotions and the functionality of technology, for instance - possibly a coincidence, but - _the universe is rarely so lazy._ Sherlock had now observed Harry under extreme stress twice - once, a light bulb had exploded, and now John's computer had crashed.

Sherlock racked his mind for similar occurrences throughout recent history, but he had never been one to pay attention to the news, unless it was spectacularly gory or thought-provoking (and it rarely was). He could recall a story about a teenager in Asia setting her bed on fire without matches, or, indeed, anything prone to start a fire. Unfortunately, Sherlock had apparently deleted all other such events, probably deeming them useless. It was likely that the media had dubbed the children supernatural or psychic, and he had immediately become disinterested. Obviously, that had been a mistake, or at least had the potential to be. There was the chance that these had been hoaxes, or that there were perfectly logical explanations behind them. In other words, there was the possibility, however small, that Harry was entirely unique in his 'ability'', if it could even be called that.

Sherlock's mind quickly became overwhelmed, as it sometimes did. Sensory overload was always a possibility for Sherlock, whose mind was like a computer, working a thousand miles an hour, noticing everything, processing it, and storing the necessary information where it would remain untouched until he needed it. Such a process was sensitive, and if it became too much, Sherlock would simply resort to lists or bullets, summarizing everything he knew about a situation and then expanding on it. This often happened on a crime scene, and then, summaries at hand, he was better able to access his mind palace. Harry was still dressing and John was saying nothing of importance; the moment to think was definitely appreciated.

 _Harry - surname unknown. Aged 14-15._

 _Recent growth spurt. Size affected by neglect - underfed as a child_

 _Lives with aunt and uncle - maternal? Paternal?_

 _\- and one child - 'Dudley', biological child of aunt and uncle_

 _Clothing consists of hand-me-downs_

 _Large size_

 _The fat cousin's? Uncle's?_

 _Brand - expensive, popular among Harry's age group -_ _ **cousin's**_ _._

 _Will or has attended a disciplinary hearing of some kind_

 _Legal?_

 _Mycroft does not know Harry. So -_

 _no presence in recent legal documentation_

 _Alien? Clear accent, raised in Surrey from infancy_

 _Aunt - native of England_

 _Balance of probability supports his_ _ **citizenship**_

' _Statute of Secrecy' - 'Section 13'_

 _\- phrases support existence of a_ _ **well-organised underground society**_ _\- source of 'legal problem' [hearing]?_

 _laws_

' _ious offense'_

previous _offense_

 _\- has breached 'Section 13' and/or 'Statute of Secrecy' 2+ times -_ _ **previous warnings**_ _?_

 _Letter handwritten, parchment naturally aged - quality suggests a_ _ **financially stable group/sender**_

 _No use of ballpoint or fountain pen -regular black ink used [obtain sample for further inquiry]?_

 _felt tip pen_

 _dip pen_

 _quill pen_

 _fountain pen_

 _ **quill pen**_

 _Society of_ _ **traditionalists**_ _?_

' _-u…'_

 _ **you**_

' _-ards'...' - group of people_

 _Guards'?_

 _Drunkards?_

 _Stewards?_

 _Diehards?_

 _?_

' _-gic…' - likely a noun - object, location?_

 _Magic?_

 _Logic?_

 _ **?**_

 _Magic Guards? Magic Drunkards? Magic Stewards? Magic Diehards?_

 _Logic Guards? Logic Drunkards? Logic Stewards? Logic Diehards?_

 _ **?**_

 _-ards'_

 _-ards'_

 _-ards'_

 _apostrophe indicates_ _ **possessive noun**_

 _Magic? Logic what?_

 _Magic -_

 _ **Wizards'**_

 _Magic wizards_

 _ **Impossible**_

 _Code?_

 _\- summons to a 'hearing' - meeting place?_

 _No - code aims to create an air of unimportance, or, if legible to an average person, tells something believable but untrue_

 _ **Sender/group believers in the supernatural?**_

 _Cult? Religion? - no, Harry is not religious_

 _\- Wicca? - no, contemporary polytheistic group_

 _ **?**_

 _when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_

 _ **Wizards**_

 _ **Magic**_

 _Magic_

 _Magic_

 _Magic_

 _ **Magic**_

 _ **Magic**_

 _ **MAGIC**_

"Magic," muttered Sherlock out loud, feeling distinctly ridiculous, because that _wasn't at all_ what he had expected to decide, and it seemed so improbable that he almost wanted to take back his earlier words. _Magic_ was impossible, too. _Magic_ should have been eliminated from his mind almost immediately. Magic was _not_ a possibility. He was obviously missing something of great importance.

 _Yet magic, in context, is oddly sensible,_ he mused idly. If magic existed, it was very likely that it would be a force one would have to _learn_ to control. Teens and children were known for being exceptionally emotional, losing control of their minds, mouths, and even limbs in the worst of situations. So why not magic? A young 'wizard' Harry under great stress destroys a lightbulb, a computer.

And a 'Statute of Secrecy' was only logical in this sense, as well. True practitioners of magics were entirely unheard of. _Why?_ Sherlock thought, feeling almost entertained with himself. For a moment, he felt almost like the naive child who had stupidly allowed himself to dream of becoming a pirate. _The society as a whole would face great persecution and, if not that, harassment. Of course, separating magical society from non-magical society would also have its drawbacks - isolationist tendencies, the production of supremacists, and a lack of understanding of modern sciences, for instance._

A magical society _would_ have laws, too, wouldn't it? Assuming the community was large enough, the use of magic would likely need to be managed by a group of intelligent or powerful officials. Otherwise (if there were very few 'wizards', or if wizards operated independently), practitioners of magic would likely use their power to gain control of wealth, money, or people. Magic probably would not be a secret at all. Therefore, _if_ magic did exist, it was obviously still a secret, meaning that a governing body _also_ existed. But if magic existed in Britain, wouldn't it also exist in other places? The idea was fascinating - many governed, secret, and magic societies, spanning the globe - after all, if Sherlock recalled correctly, and he always did, the letter had used the word 'international - and accounting for the rare 'true' supernatural occurrence.

Not only that, but magic - he felt even more childish thinking this - could account for his gap in memory! If, as he had decided earlier, Harry might lose control of his 'magic' under stress, it was possible that it had… _leaked out_ at the shopping complex when Sherlock had met his Aunt. The woman had done a considerable amount of screeching. Perhaps it had escalated - she, or someone else, had made a threat - and as a result, Harry's magic had flared up. Perhaps the shopping center had blacked out, or the computers had ceased working - _or perhaps this accidental magic is not constrained to technology. It is, after all, accidental._ The government that _must_ exist would also have a way of enforcing the 'Statute of Secrecy', which was obviously a law banning the practice of magic in front of non-magical people. So the wizarding equivalent of police had come to sort everything out - this must have included adjusting the memories of every non-magical witness _as well as_ sorting out the immediate effects of the magic.

This not only accounted for the gaps in Sherlock's own memory, but also for the mentions of Harry having _already received an official warning_ regarding the Statute of Secrecy. Obviously the letter was no more than a month old (the paper was naturally aged, but the ink was not at all faded), so the official warning referenced _could_ have been from any time before late July, including a possible outburst at the shopping mall over a year before. It was also possible that the official warning was from another time when Harry had _purposely_ used magic in front of a magical person, and that an accident would not be punished, but still covered up by the officials of the magical government.

What had started out as some kind of joke or mental exercise, one that would be known only to himself, suddenly seemed more serious, because it _actually made sense._

"Magic," Sherlock said out loud again, frowning.

And before he could think or say much more, something shattered loudly in the background. _Based on the noise, something was dropped in the kitchen. Dripping noises - a glass, then. Tea or water, since we're out of milk. John is not in the room - he likely would have some dull response - "What?" for instance. And if he_ had _dropped something, he would have reacted in frustration. So it's someone else, probably making a mess because of what they just heard me say. It's possible that John has allowed Gavin or Mycroft into the flat, but then he would have disturbed my thought processes in order to make more room on the sofa. John wouldn't have left guests here alone, either. And who would react to such a simple word so strongly - unless they had something to hide?_

 _Harry._

* * *

 _Wow. Okay, this one was a short one - about 1700 words - but hopefully a good one.  
I apologize if the reasoning wasn't particularly brilliant/if it was a bit hard to follow - it is purely my own and **I** am obviously **not** Sherlock Holmes. xD_

 _I wasn't actually planning for him to be in the know so soon, but when I was going through the deductions in this chapter, I realized how odd it would be for Holmes to sit down and think about this, really get into it, and leave with just some half-baked, illogical opinion. And Sherlock is so clever, and has just enough clues on hand, that I think he would be able to figure it out pretty easily given the chance. Harry wasn't as careful as he though, and even if he had been, Sherlock was bound to notice the patterns that seem to surround Harry._

 _Since I wasn't planning for the story to take this turn, the next chapter may or may not take a while to write. Thanks for your patience. You guys are so cool!_

Mokina;; _Yeah, you're right. I think they do that because Sherlock's socially awkward and John just doesn't really know what to do with Harry. He hasn't even met Mary yet - much less impregnated her - so the idea of having a kid in the flat hadn't even crossed his mind before. It probably doesn't help that Harry is abused, either._

WRose;; _Yeah, I feel like Harry will really be able to put them in their place. Something about a kid who's seen to much is so unsettling that they'll probably be more put off by him than they ever are by Sherlock._

Guest 1;; _You know, I never actually realized that half of the people Harry knows are enablers until I started writing this fic. Of course, a Vernon who beats Harry isn't canon (not explicitly, anyways), but Harry is explicitly starved, physically abused by Dudley, and verbally abused by everyone in his 'family' and no one does anything about it. Ugh. And_ g _ood! Glad my thoughts made sense to somebody, even if people may not all agree. Personally, I've read stories that went both ways and they were all great, so it doesn't matter much to me._

roobug21301;; _Yeah. It's not even really their fault. I mean, most wizards raised in wizarding families are just raised with this sense of superiority. They spend no time in the Muggle world so they just don't know any better. It kind of makes me think of the Amish. You know how they go out and live as a part of the outside world when they turn 16 (sometimes. Not all of them do it.)? It helps them gain an understanding of people who live other ways of life and allows them to choose their own path. Or, I suppose, I could think of people who take a year out of high school or college to study abroad. Either way, it gives you insight into the lives of other people. How would the wizarding world be different if they did something like that? Wow. Someone should write a fic about that. And if you do, please link me to it (:_

 _Guest 2;;_ _Thanks! Looks like trying too hard didn't help him much anyways, did it?_

Bribright91;; _That's definitely a fair point. I actually had to think about this and this isn't a perfect explanation, but here's my offer: think about 'The Other Minister' in book six. In that chapter, the Muggle minister talks about the bridge collapse. He knows that the bridge collapsed, but that's really all he knows because everyone who was there to see what really happened is either dead or they don't remember it. I think that would be what's preventing Mycroft from deducing the wizarding world: he has all of the events on hand, but that's all. No witness statements, no scientific mumbo-jumbo (because to people like engineers or chemists, magically caused disasters seem to pop out of the blue and without reason or logic), and not even any CCTV footage. He was probably either left entirely confused by any magic disasters, or he decided that there was probably a reasonable cause behind it and that his scientists were simply too stupid to figure it out (Mycroft doesn't do this stuff himself). Actually, you may have given me a one-shot idea. Hm._

 _And, to everyone else, thanks for letting m,e know that you enjoyed the chapter! I hope you liked this one too!_

 ** _Also, just so you guys know, I'll be writing a one-shot based off of this fic for a reviewer once we hit 150 reviews. I'll basically take the username of everyone who's reviewed (except guest reviewers) and put it into a random generator. Once our winner is picked, I'll PM them and we'll work out the details. Sound cool?_**


	10. chapter nine

_**Warning! This is one of my worst chapters yet!**_ _I have rewritten it SO_ many _times but just can't get it right!_

* * *

Chapter 9

* * *

Ninety seconds. Ninety seconds ago, Harry had come into the living room fully dressed and John had pulled a face, telling him that Sherlock was thinking and he didn't know how long it would be, so why didn't Harry have some tea? And then he'd left and Harry had begun to drink, and then he heard Sherlock say magic.

That wasn't supposed to happen. What had Harry done to clue him in? Whatever it was, he already sorely regretted it. Still - and almost in spite of himself - Harry was suddenly in awe of the detective. He was a man of science, if his occasional scathing comments about religion and superstition or his many experiments were anything to go by. In spite of his beliefs, though, it had taken him around three minutes, give or take, to decide that magic was, at the very least, a possibility.

But oh God. He had messed up so badly. Someone else knew. Someone else knew that there was magic - that he was magic. And he didn't know what to do about it, either. He couldn't Obliviate him, after all - underage magic. But he couldn't alert the Ministry, either, and they wouldn't know since he hadn't done any underage magic recently (at least, not enough to get their attention). If Harry told anybody in the Order, they'd have to pass it on to the Ministry, since only officials could legally obliviate Muggles. The way things were at the Ministry, that couldn't be allowed to happen.

So what was he supposed to do about this now? Just let Sherlock know? Harry didn't know the law. What did the Statute of Secrecy prevent - outright telling Muggles that magic was real? Doing magic in front of them, of course, was banned. But if the Muggle figured it out themselves, was that illegal? It couldn't be, could it, since a wizard couldn't possibly control another person's intuition? Besides, a Muggle clever enough to decide that magic was real would probably have the good sense to keep it to themselves - nobody wanted other people to think they were mad.

But even if the Ministry wasn't a threat, Harry still had things to worry about. What if Sherlock wanted to profit off of Harry's magic somehow? What if he wouldn't let Harry go back to school? Hogwarts would send someone after him, surely… but Arthur Weasley hadn't even inquired after his 'uncle's' address! Nobody would know where he was, and he'd be completely helpless; he couldn't do magic, after all.

"Quite a mess you've made, Harry," Sherlock commented, startling him into reality. He was stupid, going off on some mind-tangent like that when he so obviously had the immediate consequences to deal with. He hurried to the floor and scrambled to pick up the shattered pieces of the cup. One of his fingers began to bleed, but soon he had all off he teacup in a neat pile on the floor, so he'd be able to mop up the tea itself. He felt numb and entirely separate from his body for a moment. It was nice, being more concerned about the mess than the magic - another mess, and a more horrible one entirely.

This, unfortunately, was not destined to last long. "Sorry. Er - towels?" he muttered quietly.

What Harry had said went entirely ignored - to be expected, of course. Sherlock wasn't courteous from what Harry could tell, and a discovery like this one wouldn't go ignored. "Magic," Sherlock said, sounding completely enthralled. He peered over the couch, finally, noting the mess on the floor and giving a wave of his hand, denouncing its importance. There was a frightening curiosity and something like greed in his eyes. The grey-blue-green orbs glittered excitedly as he spoke. "I do believe that's your greatest secret, out in the open, Harry. Magic - doesn't mix with electricity, a world large and organized enough to have a government and laws. It explains your nonexistent boarding school as well. You will, of course, inform me of your last name now."

He said this all very quickly and matter-of-factly, giving Harry a somewhat feral smile as he stood in the puddle of tea.

"Potter. Harry Potter," said Harry's Mouth without consulting Harry's Brain at all.

"And magic, of course, Mr. Potter, you'll tell me about magic," added the man giddily.

"No," Harry answered, "I can't."

"Whyever not, Harry?" asked Sherlock, staring at Harry again. The man seemed to being seeing him in a whole new light and Harry was sure he didn't like it. "Is it your loyalty to your current caretakers, or, perhaps, to the world that placed you in the hands of your abusers? Of course, it also stands to reason that you're concerned about another violation of the Statute of Secrecy - your third since you became involved with the magical world." Harry gawked. How could he possibly know about that? "You'll want to check your luggage for holes next time, Harry," Sherlock answered, as if he could read his mind - or, more likely, his face. My luggage. Of course - my suitcase is borrowed and ancient. It's bound to have holes in it… how did none of us notice that before I left? And of course the hole would reveal some sort of important document... "Don't feel too bad about it, Harry," reassured the apparently mind-reading Sherlock. "You aren't unique in that you stupidly overlook the obvious."

Harry gawked openly at him.

Earlier, when Harry had been bellyaching to himself about his situation, he'd thought, I'll be found out. This is awful. Of all people to get stuck with! and the like. But he hadn't truly expected this to happen at all; in his mind this hadn't had the faintest likelihood of ever happening, and now it had. He'd been feeling sorry for himself even though there'd been nothing wrong at all, and now there was. Harry tried to offer himself up some comfort, but he couldn't. Where could he possibly find comfort in this situation? Sherlock knew he was a wizard, and probably that Watson fellow would be told about it. And what about Sherlock's older brother, a man with power who made subtle threats, as if he thought Harry was a threat but didn't quite know why? What would happen if he found out?

And then he snapped himself harshly into reality and glanced around, nervous. What if the landlady was here? He'd hardly seen her - Sherlock didn't seem to want her knowing of Harry's existence, for some reason - but he knew that she popped in and out all of the time because Sherlock would tell him to go to another room for the time being, looking all bothered and irritated as he sent his new experiment away for a few moments. If the landlady or anybody else heard, he'd be in even more trouble. Harry wasn't sure yet, but he thought that Sherlock probably meant something to the public given his relationship with the police and the constant talk about cases and, by John, the press. If the information got out to someone who liked to talk, it could wind up in the public. How could the Ministry wipe the minds of everyone who watched a news broadcast, or read the paper?

They couldn't.

"If you're really so clever," said Harry, getting that sudden burst of foolish courage he sometimes had when talking to Snape, "you should know that no one else is supposed to know that." With Snape, it usually sounded aggressive, and it might have this time if he wasn't so shocked.

"I was right," Sherlock said proudly, but also as if he thought it was a given. "And of course it's supposed to be a secret, Harry - otherwise I would remember the magic you did while you were out shopping last summer, wouldn't I?"

A pause. Harry didn't answer - he felt like it'd just be walking straight into more trouble.

"I expect," he heard Sherlock muttering, mostly to himself now, "that the memory is still there, somewhere, and that I could access it… forgotten… but memories are not material, so could something such as magic truly get rid of them? What's far more likely is that it has been skillfully hidden, but still exists…"

Harry remembered hearing the story of how Bertha Jorkins had been tortured and killed for Obliviated memories and shivered. "Mr. Holmes," he warned. "You shouldn't do that - go after the erased memory, I mean. It's… dangerous."

"Why, then," asked Sherlock, sounding vaguely annoyed and only half-attentive, "would the people responsible to keeping magic a secret, most likely a government or police-type organization, erase a person's memories? The vast majority of people -" he sounded almost scathing "- believe it wrong to place the mind of another human at risk. This is highly suggestive of a magic practitioner's feelings of superiority over… average humans, which are no doubt present -"

"Really, Mr. Holmes, it's dangerous," Harry snapped, realizing that the detective was still searching his head for anything the remotely resembled his most likely idea of the memory, and still disregarding Harry's warning. "And I don't know. I'm not exactly working at the Ministry, am I? Stop! It was just a bit of accidental magic!"

He felt distinctly relieved when Sherlock looked up, his face a blank and terrifying mask, his eyes sparkling calculatingly. "Just? So accidental magic is not against the law and did not cause you trouble, meaning that the magic you performed, the magic that triggered your hearing, was on purpose. This has happened once before, most likely, and you already knew of the why would you do it again? In retaliation to your uncle, perhaps?" Harry opened his mouth but Sherlock continued, 'deducing' Harry's life as easily as if Harry had just told it to him. "No, you were forced to use magic - you were put in danger. Why would a child your age, a child still in school, be in a situation so severe that he takes action in spite of what is surely a law? You, Harry, did not think - you didn't have time to. It was life or death, and you were able to act in haste and without panic, based off of your current healthy state - you're used to danger. Danger in the face of the pigs you call relatives? Or something else?"

"Stop," Harry whispered, still feeling quite rooted to his spot, but Sherlock continued. "For all Harry knew, Sherlock wasn't sure if he was still in the room or not.

"You live with your aunt and uncle - I originally deduced the possibility of abandonment or death, but your parents are most likely dead and have been since your early childhood. Murdered, in fact. Coincidence? Unlikely. So tell me, Harry, how the likely murders of your parents are connected to the magic that brought you to London this summer, and the danger you face even now?"

Harry let out a breath he hadn't even thought of holding. How had he known all of that? Had the idea of magic clarified so much, or had Sherlock guessed some of it before? Was Harry that obvious? And how could he possibly tell him what the danger was, even if he wanted to? It sounded ridiculous, some 'Dark Lord' putting a fifteen-year-old at the top of his hit list. And Sherlock would probably ask far more questions than Harry could possibly answer with the limited information he'd been allowed to learn. "Why," he began finally, feeling as exposed and out of breath as a fish out of water, "do you even c - want to know? You can't get involved, or do anything about it!"

"I can't," Sherlock told him, sounding displeased at having to use those two words together, "do magic. That does not mean I can't do anything. You are surrounded by people who are able to do magic, but did the stop what happened this summer? Or last summer? Or even the summer before?" Harry actually found himself pausing to consider that. Sherlock was right. It wouldn't have been that hard to stop his fat thing of an uncle from beating him black and blue. They hardly could have stopped his accidental magic the year before, but what about the dementors? If they were really keeping watch over harry and he was truly so important to them, why would they send someone as unreliable and irresponsible as Mundungus Fletcher apparently was to keep watch over him?

And now that Harry was thinking about it, being surrounded by dozens of fully trained and qualified wizards a witches had not stopped any of the things that had happened to him at school, where he was supposed to be safe! The few days he had spent with Sherlock Holmes, who seemed incredibly irresponsible and totally clueless as to caring for a teenager, had probably been the safest days of Harry's entire existence!

So why shouldn't Harry just go on and tell him everything?

As if Sherlock could see the battle being waged in the front of Harry's conscience, he smiled.

* * *

 _In case you wondered, Harry is in shock, which is why he's not flipping shit right now._

 _By the way, THANK YOU for all of the reviews last chapter! Remember, when we hit 150 reviews, a random reviewer will be able to prompt a one-shot related to this fic._

 _(I replied to some reviews via PM, especially those with questions)_

 _small helm;; two words: EXPECT IT  
Jemas Simasa;; He was with the Weasleys at Grimmauld Place, and they know he is with Sherlock, who they believe to be acquainted with Harry's uncle. He didn't disappear, I promise. And the flat's been warded; I just didn't right about it because most of the Order wizards aren't important enough to the story to have POVs and none of the main characters were there to witness it happening.  
reflected misery;; Thanks! I don't know my IQ - I've always thought that it's just a number, and like grades, has little to do with anyone's actual intelligence. Unless it's required of me, I will probably never get tested. I based Sherlock's thought processes on the few times we see him using his mind palace, and basically my own thoughts/reasoning. And you're right - it's hard to make it clear that Sherlock takes no time at all to put these things together, but there's only so much you can do.  
narc0manc3r;; That's actually a really good idea. Hm. I never really thought about witches and wizards having callouses, but they would, wouldn't they? I mean, they use wands for everything.  
sunsethill;; Exactly. I was actually on a site that listed every word ending/beginning with the word fragments I had to look up, and almost nothing made sense except the words I chose to show.  
Nooo Aime;; Thanks for being such a loyal reviewer! I'm glad you're enjoying the story.  
Guest;; Thanks, I've been shooting for that. I hate it that people write him as the ultra-dad when he probably has zero experience with children, so I'm trying to be careful.  
Thanks to all my other reviewers!_


	11. chapter ten

Chapter 10

* * *

Miles away, preparations were being made. Hogwarts - and even more so, Dumbledore and Harry Potter - was beginning to grate on the Ministry and the Minister himself more than anything. Between the horrible lies they'd been telling the public and underage, impressionable _students,_ everyone who was anyone was becoming fed up.

That started with Cornelius Fudge.

Fudge hadn't ever been the smartest boy in his class at Hogwarts. He wasn't the booksmart type, but he had always known that it was good to accept help when it was offered. It was why he was the Minister now; he'd taken help from _sane,_ sensible people and had risen to the top. And maybe Dumbledore had once been one of those people. He was popular to the public, who knew him as a brilliant wizard who'd defeated Grindelwald and was responsible for several advances in multiple magical fields.

Dumbledore was used to the spotlight.

That was why that made it all the more worse that he was now proclaiming that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had risen and the like. He knew that it wouldn't - couldn't - be true, and he knew that the public wouldn't like it. _It's ridiculous,_ thought Fudge, _that the man I used to write for advice has gone senile._

As much as he'd wanted (at first) to talk to the old man and make sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was mistaken or joking, because at first there had been a lingering doubt at the back of Fudge's mind - _what if he was telling the truth_ -, it was impossible. For people to know that he had _ever_ been regularly in touch with the old fool would be nothing less than political suicide. Fudge couldn't bring himself to do it, but now, he was glad he hadn't.

Fudge had come to his senses. Dumbledore wasn't _really_ a fool. That crackpot had a reason for everything, and Fudge doubted that this was any exception. But what reason could a school headmaster have for causing panic across the country - no, the continent? How could it benefit him in his little office at Hogwarts? And how could a person who constantly had influence over young and impressionable minds _possibly_ think that it was a good idea to spread such a horrible lie?

The answer was simple. Dumbledore had always wanted political power - why else would he have always been willing to help when Fudge asked him for help or advice? He was probably hoping that in their panic, everyone would rally around him, the man who imprisoned Grindelwald, the most terrible wizard in history just after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. It probably hadn't seemed to hurt that he had Harry POtter echoing his story. Dumbledore had always pretended he didn't want to be Minister, but Fudge realized now that, all along, he'd been like a puppet and Dumbledore was holding the strings. How often had he made a policy-changing decision because of something that man said? Too many! He had already dug himself a grave, and a deep one, at that, but it wasn't deep enough that he couldn't dig himself back out of it.

Fudge _finally_ felt like the smart one.

From the instant he'd realized that Dumbledore was poisoning the wizarding world, he'd realized several other things. He wanted political power, sure, but this rumor was only step one. He was a headmaster, like Fudge had been thinking earlier, _surrounded_ by impressionable mids. And who had he been hiring lately? Ex-Aurors and dangerous magical creatures! He was forming an army to bully any protestors into obedience. Fudge would not stand for it.

He had been exceedingly lucky in the past month - the old headmaster had failed to persuade any old friends to ruin their reputations by teaching at his… training grounds. Base. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't a school anymore.

With this particular fact on his side, he could stop some kind of coup d-etat in its tracks.

Dolores Umbridge was the solution, simple as that. She was bold, mean, and loyal to those with _real_ power to her last breath. That woman would stop at nothing to make sure that Dumbledore's mad plans would never move forward. By the time she was done with them, those children would be magically able, but not enough to defeat the Ministry. And they'd have some sense talked into them. Sense enough to realize that Dumbledore wasn't the sort of leader they really needed to be following.

All it had taken was the passing of a single new law.

It wasn't really an abuse of his power. It was for the children, after all.

* * *

"This book," Sherlock complained, "is useless. It seems that the magical standards of education is no better than those of… Muggles."

"Probably they had trouble finding a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher again," Harry explained. Sherlock could see it in his face - the need to defend that school of his. Clearly the boy wasn't intelligent enough to see that the place wasn't doing him any good. Even from the few details Harry had shared. it was obvious that 'Hogwarts' was not a suitable place for children. What fool of a teacher would hide something of almost infinite value in a school? How had a twelve-year-old been allowed to go up against a huge, deadly serpent when he was in a school full of highly accredited teachers? And how was it that any government would think it intelligent to put children in the same space as soul-sucking monsters?

To Sherlock, who hadn't known of any of these things until an hour before, it was absurd in a _number_ of ways.

Sherlock was far from being gifted with or even understanding children, but even _he_ wouldn't have been so irresponsible as to allow those things to happen.

But the boy's stubborn loyalty could remain, because Sherlock had little doubt that he would reap much benefit from it.

John would be undoubtedly disappointed.

"Indeed" Sherlock answered vaguely. "This particular author seems inclined to use no magic at all. I expect this will be an.. interesting class for you this year.:

Harry did not answer.

"Now," Sherlock said, setting down the book. "Given all of this information I am able to read you much better, Harry. And I am now able to tell that you have failed to mention something even now. What is it?"

It had taken him several moments to add together many of Harry's oddest, most subtle tendencies - the way he'd carefully keep sight on the door, the way he seemed almost hesitant to speak in detail about the past events at Hogwarts and his parents' deaths. Someone was after them, and the things that had made his life so very eventful, so _not boring,_ were tied to the person or persons responsible.

Harry had been very young when his parents were killed; what could a toddler, at the oldest, possibly do to warrant revenge from the killers, if that was the connection? Harry had mentioned accidental magic, so perhaps that had something to do with it. But the way Harry spoke about such accidents, they were minor and not permanently harmful to anyone. If the parents had been the ones who had done the damage - which was far more likely - why were the people hunting Harry down? It was not unheard of for family or friends to be injured or killed as 'punishment' but Harry's parents were dead. They would feel nothing, know nothing, if their surviving son was to die.

So the target was not the parents, but Harry himself. Somehow, the murderer had failed. "How?" asked Sherlock.

"I - what?" asked Harry.

"I asked how you survived but your parents didn't when the attack was clearly targeted at you," Sherlock repeated. "PAy attention."

Harry looked terribly irritated for some reason. It would probably be better if John was here to tell him when he was being 'a bit not good'... but then, John probably wouldn't want him to broach this subject at all. "You weren't even talking!" Harry protested.

"I have now," Sherlock answered childishly, "so if you would be so kind as to _answer the question_.

Harry's face was still flushed in frustration but he appeared to be in thought now, at least. Evidently he was unsure of the answer himself. _Whatever it was that saved him, it wasn't straightforward,_ he realized. Perhaps the parents had killed the leader and the followers had wanted revenge all this time? That was extraordinarily cult-like, though, and he doubted that such a leader would have enough devoted followers to carry out attempted murder so long without being caught. People were cowardly by nature, so probability dictated that most of the followers who were not imprisoned were dead or had managed to convince people of their innocence. They wouldn't want to give that up so easily. Additionally, for that to be a real possibility, Harry's parents would either have to be still living, or killed later in life. If the murderer had brought a follower with him so that the parents were killed during his first and final attack - as Harry had described it - the follower would have gone on and killed Harry as well. _The murderer is still alive, then, which obviously means that he was not killed by the parents. How could someone who easily disposed of two grown adults fail to kill his original target_ and _develop a grudge against the target to the point that he pursues them for over a decade?_

"I don't know," said Harry finally, and though his words had a certain ring of truth to them, Sherlock was irritated by the… well, it wasn't really an answer.

"Certainly someone has theorized about it," Sherlock insisted. Certainly _Harry_ had theorized it. He must have.

"Dumbledore always said that it…" Harry began to look embarrassed, as if he didn't quite like what he was about to say. "... that it was love."

 _That explains the look, then._ "A mere chemical reaction," he announced, though Harry didn't quite seem to like that one either. "How could love possibly save you?"

"S-something about love being an ancient magic," Harry answered.

 _A charm, perhaps?_ Sherlock mused, remembering one of the first books Harry had reluctantly showed him. _Love, essentially caused by hormones, often accompanied by a side of loyalty. Mothers - famed for being overly protective of their children. A charm. I do wish I could do further research on the subject, but…_

"But, um, that's why people protect me," Harry explained, finally getting back to Sherlock's earlier question. "They guy who murdered my parents - Lord Voldemort, I me -"

"Flight of death?" asked Sherlock scathingly and then waved his hand. "Go on."

"Well, he's still after me," Harry said. "He hit me with the Killing Curse and it.. ricocheted. I suppose he feels that he can't move on until he kills me or something. So I've got to be careful."

"Enrolling in a school that allows underqualified students to be involuntarily put through potentially deadly competitions is careful?" Sherlock replied before he could stop himself.

Harry prickled. "That wasn't their fault," he snapped indignantly. "They did everything they could to prevent it."

"No, they didn't, or you wouldn't have been entered," disagreed Sherlock. "Was there a teacher or guard there at all times of the day or night, or did the lazy old fools rely on their 'magic' to get the job done. If you, standing here _alive,_ isn't an indication that spellwork isn't always reliable, I'm afraid I don't know what is."

"I -" Harry began, and then paused, as if he wasn't quite sure what to say to that.

"Voldemort," Sherlock said, feeling the name on his tongue like he had when he'd first heard of Moriarty, "is abroad now?"

"Yes," Harry said, "but he's not been doing much of anything. He disappeared right after he tried to kill me and… I told you what happened after the Tournament. He doesn't want the Ministry to know he's back -"

"Enjoying the lack of attention and the freedom to plan," Sherlock mused. "And you're being protected by the same idiot who runs your school."

"Dumbledore isn't an idiot, he just," Harry paused, pursing his lips, and finished, "tries to do what's for the greater good."

Sherlock snorted. Perhaps that was the intention but that didn't make all of the risks that Harry was put through necessary. Perhaps it was an attempt to toughen the boy up. Was 'Dumbledore' expecting some kind of prize fight in the future?

"You claimed to be famous. Why is it that you live with your mother's family? Certainly someone in the wizarding world would be willing to care for you."

"I don't know," Harry answered frustratedly. "But I've been told it's important, and I haven't spent _that_ much time with the Dursleys even over the summers anyways."

"Long enough to be beaten half to death," Sherlock said. "I said if you'd tell me about your magic, I'd protect you." Harry POtter was lucky that e was mildly interesting. He was lucky that he had information Sherlock wanted. In fact, he was so absurdly lucky that Sherlock was about to make an unimaginably unrealistic promise in the hopes of more data. A promise he wasn't sure he would be able to keep. "You will not be returning to an abusive household," he said, "ever. I'll work it out." _Damn. I suppose I'll have to contact Mycroft now._

"W - But how can you do that?"

"I'll work it out," Sherlock repeated. But he met eyes with Harry, who suddenly seemed to get the message: _there's no such thing as free lunch._

* * *

"You know," said Hermione as she scrubbed furiously at the baseboards, "I hope Harry's well."

Ron glared at her. "He's probably better off than we are."

* * *

 _How was that for fast? Hope you guys enjoyed it!  
_

 _sunsethill;; Yeah. Harry can't help it; he's too nice and generous for his own good.  
C'mon;; Thanks! That was part of the challenge, haha.  
Ennael;; You know, you're right, I only mentioned that in passing and didn't go into detail. I only said he 'left'. That's the only part of the old version that I kept and I wrote that almost a month ago, but I think I intended for him to be at work.  
Guest;; I did say that John wasn't there, but it wasn't detailed much. And the reason I didn't go into great detail on people's movements in the last chapter is because it was Harry's POV and, to him, the whole situation probably seemed surreal. He was a bit dazed, you know? But I'll try to be a bit better about that! Thanks for the advice!  
Riddle-Snape;; You got your wish! This chapter was VERY dialogue-oriented, lol.  
Kai19;; I think we'll definitely make use of Mycroft in this story (; Harry's already been through his trial, though._

 _Thanks to everyone who encouraged me about the quality of the last chapter._

 _By the way, would anyone link me to an artist who I could possibly commission for a cover for this story? I'm having a bit of trouble finding one._

 _BY THE WAY! I have PMed a reviewer about a oneshot and they haven't gotten back to me. I'll give them a couple more days and then pick someone else._


	12. chapter eleven

Chapter 11 ( _coughfinallycoughcough_ )

* * *

The next day must have been destined to be entirely chaotic.

* * *

The Dursleys began their day in an almost admirably normal way.

Petunia Dursley was awoken at exactly eight AM by her sounding alarm clock. She quickly shut if off, then crept out of bed. She left Vernon sleeping in their room and shut the door on his quiet snores. She examined the floors and walls as she walked. Harry had washed the walls shortly before he left, and the carpet didn't yet need to be vacuumed. The picture frames hanging on the walls were perfectly in line, and not a one was crooked. The frames were dusted, and the Dursley photographs beamed at her as she passed. Nothing was amiss, and if the light shining through the downstairs windows was any indication, it was a lovely day. Dudley would want to go out and meet with his friends. She smiled faintly; her little boy was so popular.

The nurse had never officially terminated Dudley's diet, but he'd lost _so_ much weight and he looked so handsome now. And taking up boxing had helped him along for sure. (The school didn't accommodate for her sweet little growing boy, but they did, apparently, have shorts for _boxers_.) Now they had bacon once a week, and though it wasn't as much as she _wanted_ to do for her little Diddykins, he did seem to enjoy it.

The air smelled faintly of air freshener, but as she started the bacon, it became more savory. The boys would wake up to it, and it would set them up for a great day. It always had.

Just as she'd expected, she soon heard the sturdy footsteps of her son coming from upstairs. He sat down at the table and stared eagerly at the pan. "Good morning, Dudders!" Petunia called to her son. "I thought we'd start off the day with a nice, healthy breakfast. You're father's working today, so I expect he'll be down to eat with us soon."

"Yeah," Dudley said absently. "I'm gonna hang out with my friends today. We'll be in the park."

"That's alright, dear," she smiled and turned the bacon. He'd become so active and energetic. What a good boy. "It's important to enjoy these last few days before school starts."

Dudley nodded. Petunia sighed happily; when her sister's brat was around, she never spoke to her son like this. She was too busy worrying that the little fool was going to do something stupid and unappreciative of their generosity, or else attack them or try to find something horribly abnormal and freakish in their lives. Now that he was gone for the year, they could have some peace. "I think I'll do boxing again this year."

"That's lovely, Dudders," Petunia told him, beaming as she took a half a piece of bacon for herself. "You'll do even better than last year, I'm sure." She dumped the remaining bacon on a plate for Vernon. "Do you want some eggs, dear?"

"Yeah. Can you scramble them?" Dudley asked her. She nodded, and another pair of footsteps sounded from upstairs. Petunia felt her smile becoming strained.

"Of course, dear. Do you want four?" To his resounding 'yes', she cracked four brown eggs into the bacon grease and began to add green peppers and some salt.

"You're putting green stuff in there!" Dudley protested.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, catching herself. "I'll just give these to your father, then." And cracking four more eggs, she seasoned them accordingly.

She could tell that Vernon had come downstairs when he and Dudley began a detailed conversation regarding his last fight for the umpteenth time that summer. She felt mildly annoyed but said nothing. It was important that a boy had a good relationship with his father, even if the man was screwing the secretary.

She shook her head. That kind of vulgarity wasn't appropriate. At least Vernon wasn't some… some lazy millennial reliant upon money from the government and the generosity of his family to live. At least he worked. In fact, he was successful. Thanks to Vernon, Petunia was able to focus on staying at home and raising her son, thereby honoring traditional family values. They had a lovely home in the perfect neighborhood. Their son went to a good school. And they kept the _other_ one hidden easily enough.

In a situation like this, she just had to focus on the positives. Vernon had been embarrassed. The affair had been wrong, inappropriate, and abnormal for a healthy nuclear family. He regretted it. It wouldn't happen again.

But Mary Beth Shaw's husband had said the same thing to _her_ before he inevitably messed up again and ran off with some… _whore_ from France.

"Breakfast is excellent, Pet," Vernon announced.

"Thank you, dear," she answered, wholeheartedly for Dudley's sake. "Dudders says he's out with his friends today, so I'll have Rob come over and tend the garden. I suppose I should do the shopping. Can you think of what you'd like this week?"

The two men of the household proceeded to list off a variety of items. Like a good housewife, Petunia wrote them all down and then sent them off. A few minutes later, she called their gardener to do some weeding and tend the lawn. Then, she left the house, purse in hand, and locked the door behind her. It was cool out, which was nice since the sun was, for once, _out,_ and beating down on her.

The trip to the store, the store itself, and the trip back was fine enough. She carried the groceries, fought to unlock the door, and put everything away.

Everything was fine.

Everything was average.

* * *

In the wizarding world, everything was _not_ fine and average.

In fact, it was downright insane. Fudge was still dealing with the backlash of challenging Harry Potter in court. The media wasn't showing him in a negative light, but it was still embarrassing that he'd dragged out the Wizengamot only to fail to expel the boy. Smaller media outlets that still worshiped the ground Dumbledore and Potter walked on were eating it up, but they didn't matter. What did was that some of the employees at the Ministry, even in the courts, had the internalized idea that he was weak. He was fighting the inside to keep his place on the throne.

As if that wasn't enough, Potter and Dumbledore were spreading the ridiculous idea that a _rogue_ Dementor had provoked the boy's magic! And it was ridiculous. The dementors were completely within the control of the Ministry and were more than pleased to serve as long as they got their share of miserable prisoners. A chill ran up his spine for a moment, and he shook his head. As it turned out, they weren't ridiculous at all, because the only human guards on all of Azkaban reported that a dementor had left on Ministry orders. This, obviously, made it all the worse. If that got out, Fudge and his legacy would be destroyed.

Then, since his life was evidently supposed to be a cosmic joke, the portrait in his office disappeared, and then came back only to inform him that, in an unheard of move by the Muggle Minister, he was to appear in the Prime Minister's office at no later than one PM that day. The matter was urgent, apparently, and lateness would be absolutely intolerable.

The nerve.

And so he had Floo'd to the office at precisely twelve fifty-nine, and he'd stepped out, and instead of looking at the Prime Minister, he was looking at a young woman sitting quietly in a chair just across from him. She looked up from the little glowy thing she was holding - a tone or fone or something, if he recalled correctly. "I presume you are Minister Fudge?"

This was, for many a reason, alarming. After all, Fudge didn't know much about Muggles, but he usually knew when a new Minister was elected. Either this was a major lapse of performance by his team or someone completely out of the confidences of the Ministry had just seen him emerge from the fireplace. "I - I am. Are you the Muggle Minister?" he asked sharply.

The woman just chuckled softly.

 _No, then._ This was bad. If anything was bad, this was it. He wondered if he should Obliviate her, but that had to be done by the proper officials. Otherwise, there would be a scandal, and he would be painted a Muggle-hater by the media and the public. A blood purist. On the other hand, calling the proper officials would cause a scandal, too. He could see the headline already ; ' **MINISTER OF MAGIC CORNELIUS FUDGE EXPOSES MUGGLE TO MAGICAL TRANSPORTATION** '. _Damn journalists._ But if he did call the officials, if he played his cards right… maybe he could paint it all as some fool Muggle sticking their nose where it didn't belong.

That would have to work, wouldn't it? "I was called to meet with the Minister," he said coolly, looking her over.

"I'm well aware," the woman answered. "Come with me, if you would." She opened the door to the office and began to lead him out. Eventually, they reached an old car. The woman opened the door and slid inside, clearly expecting him to follow.

"Excuse me," he exclaimed. Certainly, they couldn't expect him to go God-knows-where with them. _Just think of the damage control!_ "What, exactly, is going on here?"

The woman smiled but didn't look up from her phone. She seemed to be laughing at something and shook her head a little. "You," she told the Minister of Magic, "are going to meet with the powerhouse behind this country today. Now, come on."

Somehow, those words sent ice coursing through his veins.

He was sure that he had never in his life been so patronized, except perhaps by Dumbledore, but he found himself sliding into the car and slamming the door shut. He had people who were supposed to make sure these meetings went _his_ way. What the hell had happened to them? He'd fire them. All of them - for incompetence.

The drive went on for quite some time. He was getting more irritated as the seconds passed by, and there was simply no way it would be getting any better. He was wandering around among Muggles for some meeting he had no control over. It was only lucky that he was wearing his usual suit and bowler hat. He wouldn't stand out too much.

And - the powerhouse behind the country? Never mind that the term was slightly offensive, but it implied that this girl was not the person he was to meet, and quite possibly that the Muggle Minister had grown a bigger head. Was he a threat now? Likely not, but he was apparently annoyingly ballsy.

Before he knew it, he was being ushered into a large building, much more contemporary than what was usually seen in the wizarding world, by the young woman. He was to meet the Minister here. Obviously, he was trying to flex his muscles and act superior, and if Fudge had any say in it, that wasn't going to be allowed any more than _lateness_.

Honestly. The _nerve_. Quite frankly, it was clear who had the power, and it wasn't the Muggle Minister. Maybe he had cars and obsessive female assistants, but there was little that he'd be able to do in the face of a talented wizard.

In hindsight, he would realize that it had been a bad idea to walk into that particular meeting with that particular attitude.

Inside, he was led to a large pair of wooden doors. He opened one and walked slowly inside. The room was dimly but evenly lit, and it was rather minimally furnished. In fact, it appeared to have been cleaned rather recently. The walls were lined with shelves full of books and the occasional potted plant. The floor was freshly polished wood, and the walls clean and white. In the center of the room, there were two leather armchairs. The on facing him was empty; the other was not. He could just make out the top of the head of the so-called powerhouse. Leaning against the chair, there was a cane or umbrella.

He didn't seem to recall the Prime Minister needing a cane.

Fudge made his way across the room, and sat down in the empty leather chair, and looked into the face of somebody who was not the Prime Minister at all.

And that was how his meeting with Mycroft Holmes began.

* * *

Meanwhile, Petunia was certain that her son should have arrived back home by now.

It wasn't that Dudley was never late home, but he'd been well aware that she was making a pie tonight, and that was one of his favorites. It had been quite a while since he'd been allowed any. He should have been back by five or six, but here it was, eight o'clock and growing dark, and Dudley wasn't home. Vernon wasn't either, but that was less odd since he sometimes worked late at Grunnings. Still, she had a sneaking suspicion that something wasn't quite right, and that it had nothing to do with the affair.

Petunia debated calling the police, but she was afraid they might be cruel to a boy out late at night. No, he was probably still in the park with his friends.

Still, the knot in her stomach was not eased.

The woman couldn't think of any reason for her to feel so uneasy, besides Dudley's absence. Her little boy was certainly capable of defending himself, and he was in a group of other children. Dudley was safe and Vernon was at work. She'd been nicely productive today. She hadn't been harassed by anyone. She'd barely even thought about the boy. Overall, it had been a good day.

Shaking her head, she turned on the television and began to watch a rerun of Connie Prince's show. It was the one where she went into great detail about lipsticks. Petunia didn't wear much lipstick herself, but at least she now knew she was best suited to a nude lip or maybe slightly bolder colors, matte only.

She had only passed a few minutes of time watching the show when she heard the slightest of noises from behind her. It was a quiet creaking of the floorboards that stopped as quickly and as suddenly as it started. For a moment, she thought that it was probably nothing, but quickly realized that if it was just the natural noises a wood floor made off and on, it would have been more gradual. Petunia made to sneakily grab a fillet knife from the holder.

By that time, it was already too late.

* * *

 _You guys are the best! I noticed while I was writing today that this story'd hit 900 followers. That means I've gotten well over 100 since I last updated.  
_ _To make a very long story short, I knew where I wanted to go with this story, but I wasn't sure how to get there. Now my plans may have changed entirely._

 _So~ reviews!  
 **Phantom Trainer:** I may have to take you up on that. I think I followed you on DA when I last updated a million years ago, but I dunno. I'll have to get in touch.  
 **Guest:** I'm glad. Hope you enjoyed seeing a little more of him in this chapter.  
 **Riddle-Snape:** Yeah, good old Fudge ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer, is he? Sorry I was so slow updating :(  
 **Kai19:** You got it! Sherlock as a teacher coming up soon. I think I'll use that line, too. _That's our one-shot, folks!  
 ** _Genuka:_** _Are you still looking forward to it? (; Haha, hopefully I'll write it okay...  
_ _ **Ebenbild:** We'll have to see. John knowing about Harry is something I've seriously debated. As for Sherlock in Diagon Alley... we'll see. (:  
 **Akioshino:** No kidding. The poor kid's not had a normal day in his life.  
_ _ **Polly Little:** If you're still available as a Brit-picker, I definitely need to get in touch with you.  
 **wolfzero7:** You're right on the mark. But I think somebody like Mycroft has a little less imagination than Sherlock, and he might need that final push to decide that magic is real. The question is: when he finds out, what does he do about it?  
 **D-B-Rayne:** It sort of cheers me up that you think that, because I'm in the minority in that aspect. Most people seem to think that he knows about the magical world. Another theory I read that makes more sense to me is that the Muggle Minister mentioned him in a meeting with the MoM, so they started meeting with Mycroft instead. It's permissible, but still a little unlikely for my tastes. I almost went with the majority consensus on this one, since it's actually a lot easier that way, but I decided to stick to my gut.  
 **BrilliantLady:** Thanks! And you know, I think you're absolutely right.  
 **Roserayrose:** I'm glad somebody commented on that because I thought it was hilarious xD  
_

 _Basically, I'm working on our one-shot and the next chapter is coming up soon (hopefully). Tell me what you guys want to see. Do you want me to write out the interactions of Fudge and our "mystery" powerhouse, or should that happen behind the scenes? Is anyone else interested in seeing Sherlock in Diagon alley? Should Harry return to Hogwarts? I want you guys to feel involved, and I love getting tips.  
 **Thanks for the 900! WOW!**  
_


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